


Burn Like Cold Iron

by Scyllas_revenge



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Bechdel Test Pass, Boromir Lives, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Character Death Fix, F/M, Female Friendship, Girl Falls into Middle Earth, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Slow Burn, Tenth Walker, The One Ring is Bad News
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 89,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24172486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scyllas_revenge/pseuds/Scyllas_revenge
Summary: Bee, a shy, eccentric violinist, is stolen from her home in Texas by the wizard Saruman, who hopes she might hold the key to winning a war she knows nothing about. Soon, Bee’s loyalties are torn and her bravery tested as she’s forced to ask herself: just how far is she willing to go to get back home?A creative take on a 10th walker/girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth fic, featuring a helicopter, a magic violin, and the last Ent-wife.Eventual Boromir/OC.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 172
Kudos: 214





	1. Prologue: And Now We Cannot Find Them

_My greatest adventure didn't begin until I was twenty-four years old. That is the story I'll be recounting here, to the best of my ability._

_However, I'd had dealings with magic from a very young age—even if no one ever believed me._

_My name is Beatrice Smith, and this is my story, which all began with the Ent-wives._

* * *

I bit back a scream of excitement as I breathed in the smell of pine trees and fresh mountain air.

I could still hardly believe it. My family and I were on a summer camping trip in Alpine National Park, in Montana—that's right, _Montana_. My eight-year-old brain could barely comprehend how far we were from our home in Texas, and I was so excited I felt ready to burst.

Groaning with impatience, I tapped my plastic water canteen against my leg as I waited for my parents to finish getting ready for our big hike.

"Come on, Dad," I exclaimed, stamping my light-up Wonder Woman tennis shoes on the gravel. "Let's go already!"

My dad frowned. "Just a sec, honey," he said. "I'll need to speak to one of the park rangers about our guided hike this afternoon. Think you can wait here for a few minutes? Your mom'll be back from the car in a bit."

"Of course I can, Dad. I'm not a baby," I retorted. It was true—I was eight now, and desperate to prove to my parents how mature I was. Camping in a national park was the perfect opportunity. I straightened my shoulders, adjusting my over-large backpack, filled with camping supplies and Junior National Park Ranger pamphlets.

My dad smiled down at me. "Thanks a lot, Bee. Just stay here outside the visitor's center, and I'll be right back."

"Okay." I watched my dad jog off and wave down a park ranger. Shrugging, I turned away to observe some of the other tourists.

There were lots of families, like mine, and huge groups of tourists from other countries. Many were just from other states like us, but others had accents or spoke languages I had never heard of before. It was fascinating. Absently, I wandered away from the visitor's center entrance as I watched them all.

"Hey, I picked you these flowers." I turned as I heard a man—British, maybe?—clearly just back from a hike, brandishing a handful of ragged wildflowers at his girlfriend.

"Aw, baby, you shouldn't have, they're so pretty!"

My jaw clenched. Oh, no, they didn't. I scowled, putting my eight-year-old hands on my hips as I marched up to the pair of them.

"You really shouldn't have, you know," I scolded the man, who raised an eyebrow at me over his too-big sunglasses. "It's illegal to pick the flowers here, the national park ranger said so."

The man scoffed, while the woman just chuckled. "Well, aren't you a cutie?" she asked, bending to ruffle my hair.

I stepped back, glaring up at them. "I mean it. It's bad for the environment!" I protested. "It takes years for the plants to grow back here! Didn't you read the exhibits in the…"

But the couple had already started walking away, the woman pressing the wildflowers to her nose and sniffing deeply.

"…in the visitor's center?" I finished lamely. Those meanies. I was trying to be mature and grown-up, but I guess it hadn't worked too well.

"Hey, look! Who knew chipmunks liked Doritos, huh?"

"Dude, that is hilarious!"

What? My hands balled into fists, as I whirled around, following the voices farther away through the entrance to one of the hiking paths.

"You're feeding the wildlife?" I exclaimed, facing down a group of teenagers huddled around a chipmunk at a fork in the trail. "You're feeding them Doritos?"

"Uh…yeah," one of the girls said, looking annoyed. "It's cute. So?"

I marched up to them, folding my arms angrily. "If you keep doing that, they'll die in the winter because they won't be able to find food for themselves!"

"Ugh…look, just calm down, kid," a boy snapped, clutching the bag of Doritos to his chest protectively. "Why don't you go back and find your mommy and daddy?"

I glared at him, tears welling in my eyes as I tried to find the words to properly express the depths of his crime. The chipmunk, however, seemed to have gotten impatient with his feeders, and leapt onto the boy's chest, scrabbling for the Doritos bag.

"Ah! Ew, get it off me!" the boy screamed, dropping the bag and jumping back. He and his friends panicked as they tried to shoo the chipmunk away, some of them using words I knew my parents wouldn't approve of as they pushed and yelled at each other. In the resulting scuffle, I saw the chipmunk dart away from them, scrabbling and stumbling on the gravel pathway before disappearing into the trees.

"You hurt him!" I shrieked at the teenagers, before dashing off the path in pursuit. I had to find the chipmunk and make sure it was okay, I just had to, I thought as I pushed past tree branches and stumbled over roots and shrubs, scanning the ground for signs of the poor thing.

I gulped nervously as I ran. I was breaking the rules now, just like those horrible teenagers and that annoying couple near the visitor's center. Tourists weren't supposed to leave the path—they could crush the native plant life, create litter, run into wolves or grizzly bears…

My pace slowed as I thought about that. I paused, suddenly wondering how far I'd run. I looked around.

I was lost.

Thoughts of the chipmunk flew from my mind as I spun around, looking desperately for signs of civilization. "Hello?" I yelled. My voice was muffled against the trees, which were thicker here than they had been by the trail. I must've run farther than I thought. "Mom? Dad?"

The sound of snapping twigs and rustling leaves made me jump—but there was no one around me.

I couldn't even remember which way I'd been running. Picking a direction at random, I set off, tears stinging in my eyes as I thought about hungry wolves and bears and what would happen when my parents found out I'd left the visitor's center. I'd never be a junior parks ranger now; I'd broken the rules and left the path—

"Ow!" An acorn had fallen on my head, and I paused to at the branches above me. "You mean trees!"

As if in response, the trees around me shook violently, and I threw my hands up to protect myself as a shower of pine cones and needles rained down onto my head. "Ow!"

That was weird, I thought angrily. The branches continued to shake and wave around me. It must be really windy up above me, I decided. There was certainly no wind down on the ground where I was.

I wiped at my nose, trying to stay calm as I went. So far nothing looked familiar—the trees were denser here than they'd been before. In fact, it was getting hard to walk without tripping over a root or running into a branch. Was I going in the wrong direction? I hesitated now, and turned around to start going the other way again.

But no, that couldn't be right! The trees behind me were so thick now that there was practically no room for me to walk between their trunks. But I had just been walking there, hadn't I?

"What's going on?" I said tearfully, jumping again at the sound of snapping twigs, louder this time. A low, earthy sort of groaning rose up around me—it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and I crouched low to the ground, huddling over my red backpack. "Hello?"

The trees were moving, I realized.

I could see it now—the trunks were inching towards me, their branches bending low over me and blocking out the sunlight, and the groaning sound was getting louder. I burst into tears.

"Stop it!" I cried, burying my face in my arms. "You're scaring me!"

The groaning paused for a long moment, then changed somehow—it was more creaking and crackling, and—and—was it a voice?

"Hello?" I said again.

This time I recognized words in the strange groaning sounds. "You were looking for her," it said slowly.

Fearfully, I opened my eyes and looked up to see one of the trees—was it a tree? It looked so strange now—right in front of me, one of its long branches extending down near my face. I flinched, until I looked closer. Balancing on the branch's leaves was the chipmunk I'd been following.

"You were looking for her," the voice said again—the words were unbearably low, plodding, creaking. It took me a long moment to realize it was the tree that had spoken.

"You're a talking tree," I whispered. I was stunned.

"I am no tree…just as you are no chipmunk, _búrarum_ ," the tree croaked, and I looked up and saw a face in the trunk—the strangest face I had ever seen. It looked like an ogre from one of my fairy tale books, maybe, or something a caveman might have carved onto a stone.

The branch reaching down towards me, I realized, was more like an arm—a second arm was clutched around the creature's body, and the tree stump was divided in two, like a pair of scraggly legs. The tree's branches were thick with yellow apples, which ringed its face almost like a mane of wild hair.

"What...what are you, then?" I said hoarsely. "I don't believe in trolls, you know."

"Trolls!" The creature repeated, straightening suddenly, and one of the trees behind me creaked violently as a shower of acorns hailed down onto my head. At the sudden movement, the chipmunk scurried up the creature's arm and out of sight. " _Brm hoom_ , there are no trolls here. Only Men. No elves...no dwarves..."

"I know that," I interrupted defensively. "They don't exist."

"...no wizards...and no Ents," the thing continued as if I hadn't spoken, bending down until its strange head was only feet from mine. "I am an Ent-wife."

"What's an Ent-wife?"

The Ent-wife shook her craggly head. I saw the chipmunk scurrying about between the branches around her face. " _Ent the earthborn, old as mountains_ , that is how the list went. Have you not learned such a list yourself?"

"No."

" _Búrarum_ , it is a list for all the living creatures of the world. _Eldest of all, the elf-children; Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses; Ent the earthborn, old as mountains; Man the mortal, master of horses_...ah, but here, Man is master of much more than that, _hmm_..."

I stared at the Ent-wife. "But elves and dwarves don't exist. Don't try to trick me. I'm not a baby, I know they're made up!"

The Ent-wife seemed to glare down at me. "You are very hasty, _hmm brr-hoom_...and you are quite right, in fact...Here, there are only Men…only Men, and beasts, and me, Ent-wife."

"Are…are you all Ent-wives?" I asked, looking around at the wild trees surrounding me.

The creature straightened up sadly. "I am the last Ent-wife," she said, ever so slowly. "I have awoken many of these trees as much as I am able...alas, _búrarum_ , there is no magic to be found in this strange world."

"I know that too," I interrupted again. "Magic isn't real. I even..." My eyes darted back and forth conspiratorially. "I even know Santa Claus isn't real."

"Where I am from, young human...magic is in everything. And even there, the Ents' power wanes," she said. "And here? I grow weary...day by day...I have become too tree-ish, _brm hoom-hmm_...I have stopped traversing these woods, as I once did. I prefer to remain here...rooted by the little streams, growing my apples...and watching over the creatures...of this...strange...land..."

As she spoke, her voice began to trail off, the words becoming harder to decipher amongst the groaning and creaking, until her last sentence was swallowed up by a gust of wind in a _boom-hoom_ sound.

"Hello?" I called, afraid. "Hello? Ent-wife?"

A long moment passed in silence. Suddenly, the Ent-wife shook her head, as though waking up from a deep sleep. "You are still here, young human. _Hoom-boom_...a strange being you are, indeed...though your people are cruel, _brm, hoom_ , and care not for woods golden and green...They have killed my sisters, _hmm_...and I am the last, now, to hold the ancient memories of Middle Earth..."

"What are you talking about?" I interrupted, confused, but desperate to hear the Ent-wife say more.

"Ah, not so hasty, now, _bar-hoom_ ," she said, with a great creaking sigh as though she were about to fall asleep.

"I'm sorry," I said, before I remembered my southern manners. "Uh...I mean, I'm sorry, ma'am."

The Ent-wife gave a soft laugh, and did not speak for a long moment. I waited, staring at her. " _When winter comes, and singing ends...when darkness falls at last..._ " I blinked, suddenly realizing that the Ent-wife was singing, as soft as rustling leaves.

Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear the words, and she paused for several minutes between lines, as though she'd forgotten how they went. " _When broken is the barren bough, and light and labor past...I'll look for thee, and wait for thee, until we meet again...together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain_."

"That was real pretty," I said politely. The words had made me shudder, and now my voice sounded too loud and harsh against the tree trunks in the forest.

" _Búrarum_...There are more lines than that...and yet I cannot remember them," the Ent-wife admitted, her voice slower and softer than ever. "I am tired...I am old, now...older than Elves, and wizards...rivers, and mountains. I confess I have...forgotten them all. Even the face of my dear Fangorn...never to meet again...Yes, _brm...hoom..._ I am ready to sleep...and I doubt...I...shall...wake..."

The creature's head bowed low. Her mossy eyes creaked shut.

"Wait!" I cried. "What do you mean?" She didn't answer. "Hello? Please, wake up! I'm still lost!"

Several minutes passed, and finally, with a creak of her head, the Ent-wife opened her eyes again and looked down at me. " _Hoom brm-hmm_ , your people are up that way," she croaked, pointing one of its branch-fingers behind me. The chipmunk scurried down its arm and stopped at the tip of the Ent-wife's hand, staring at me. Its nose twitched, and I giggled.

"Your friend here is unharmed," the Ent-wife added slowly. "You were good to care for her...I do not remember, yet I feel...that my kind would have been fond of you... _brm-hoom_...You would have...been named...tree-friend...if my kind...were still...in...bloom." Her branches seemed to wilt, and her lichen-green eyes slipped shut. " _Búrarum_ , now...I shall sleep...Yes, I yield...at last...and I say...his…land...is...best."

The Ent-wife fell silent again, and I stared at her, willing her to wake up again. "Ent-wife?" I asked. "Ent-wife! Hello? Wait!"

Five long minutes passed in silence, and I didn't move a muscle.

Finally, creakily, the Ent-wife's eyes opened one last time.

"What's your name?" I asked desperately.

The Ent-wife gave a weary laugh, or maybe it was just the wind rustling in her leaves. "...So hasty...little...one..." she whispered. Her voice sounded far away. "But I fear...I...do not...now re...mem... _bú...ra...rum..."_

Her eyes slipped shut, and I knew, somehow, that they would not open again.

"Ent-wife? Wait! Ent-wife!" I cried.

The only reply I received was a gusty sort of sigh, the wind rippling through her branches. Already she looked less like a troll, and more like an ordinary tree. Her legs looked more like an ordinary trunk, her face was blending in to the rough bark, and it was hard to imagine that the apples in her branches had ever resembled a head of hair.

Suddenly realizing how cold I was, I turned back the way the creature had pointed. "Thank you, Ent-wife," I said. She didn't answer. I hurried away, my eyes full of tears.

I wept as I walked, my hands balled into fists against my eyes, although I couldn't put into words what was wrong.

I followed the path that the Ent-wife had pointed out for me, and before long I was back on the trail where the teenagers had been feeding the wildlife. Thankfully, they were nowhere to be seen now. I ran back to the entrance of the visitor's center, my canteen swinging wildly on my backpack strap, and suddenly I was enveloped in a hug.

"Bee! There you are, thank goodness, we were so worried!" My mom looked frantic. "Where were you? Oh, we found her, dear!" she called over her shoulder, and I saw my dad talking to one of the park rangers worriedly.

"She's here? Oh thank goodness—"

Another hug. "I'm sorry," I managed to say, before the lecturing began.

"What were you thinking—?"

"—and we were only gone for a minute!"

"What if something had happened—?"

"You know better than to—"

I couldn't let them continue—I had too many questions. "What are Ent-wives?" I demanded.

My parents looked stunned. "What?"

"Ent-wives!" I exclaimed. "I saw one. In the forest. She helped me find my way back!"

My dad pressed a hand against his forehead. "Not now, Bee—"

"I mean it! I saw one, and she was so sad and sleepy and she had apples in her hair—"

"Bee!" my mom snapped. "That is enough. We had a hike planned for this afternoon, and now I'm not sure if that's the best idea."

I gaped in horror, sobering up at once. "No! I'll be good! I promise! I'm sorry I ran off, really. I'll be good. Let's go on the hike. Please!"

My parents finally conceded, and the rest of the day passed as normally as ever. Despite my best searching, I didn't see a single tree behaving unusually. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary. The majestic beauty of the national park seemed dull, somehow...dimmer than before, and I couldn't help but burst into tears at dinner, even though I knew the Ent-wife wasn't dead, not really. But she wasn't an Ent-wife anymore...that much I knew, even though I didn't think I understood what an Ent-wife was in the first place.

Even back at home, everything was normal. No one I talked to had ever seen or heard of talking trees, and I never saw another one. Maybe the Ent-wife had been right—she was the only one left. That thought always made me sad.

My parents were quick to dismiss the encounter as an eight-year-old's invention, and, reluctant though I was to admit it, over the years I finally came to agree with them.

By the time I was an adult, I had accepted that my meeting with the last Ent-wife was nothing more than a faded daydream.

After all, even the creature from my daydream had agreed: magic wasn't real here, and neither was Santa Claus, or elves, or dwarves, or wizards...or even Ent-wives.


	2. I Don't Think Advil Would've Helped

There was nothing in the world like rush-hour traffic in Dallas.

I’d been sitting at the same light for at least ten minutes, still only a few blocks from work. At this rate I’d be late for my gig tonight! To pass the time, I scrolled through the radio stations in my car, tapping out the melodies to the songs on my steering wheel.

“Come on…” I muttered. There had to be something interesting here. Bad country music—commercials—a mariachi band—conservative talk radio—more country music—more commercials—“What’s this?” I paused on a news story about the zoo.

“Experts are still baffled by the appearance of this strange creature last week,” the voice said, and I cranked the volume up higher, curious. “At first thought to be a wolf, researchers now believe it to be some sort of hybrid—and that’s right, you can see it right here at the zoo next week, the first of what might just be a brand new species!” _Cool_ , I thought idly. “And remember, folks, if you see any similar creatures, keep your distance! This one has been especially vicious; it’s hospitalized three zookeepers and members of animal control so far. It is larger in size than normal wolves, with a longer snout and huge fangs, and our online followers are already calling it the Dallas Warg, named after the mythical wolves of—”

Suddenly the muffled notes of Respighi’s ‘The Pines of Rome’ interrupted the news story. My ringtone! I turned the radio volume down and dug around in my purse as I drove, finding my phone just in time. “Hello?”

“Bee!” my friend’s voice exclaimed. “How’s it going?”

I wedged the phone between my face and shoulder as I drove forward. “Hey, Caroline. I can’t really talk, I’m on my way home from work.”

“Oh that’s right, you have a fancy grown-up job now,” she replied. “You’re still coming tonight, right?”

“Of course!” I said, surprised and offended. I wouldn’t miss one of our quartet’s gigs for the world, and Caroline knew that. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, you just haven’t seemed as enthusiastic about performing lately, that’s all.” I made a noise of indignation and she laughed. “No offense! I just meant, you’re always daydreaming or something when we’re at a gig. And you never wanna sit still long enough to practice.”

“Is it a crime to be a little restless now and then?”

“Well, anywho,” she plowed on, “you better hurry up and get home, before I break down your door to get into the air conditioning.”

“Caroline!” I exclaimed. “You’re at my apartment already?”

“Mayyybe...” I could practically see her giving a theatrical shrug. “I just thought we could get some practice in, maybe drive over to The Fiddler’s Elbow together for the gig. I’d carpool with Nathan, but his bass takes up half of his car, and you know John’s car smells like old Taco Bell wrappers.”

I made a face. “I guess that’s true.”

“And speaking of John and Nathan,” Caroline said, “I invited them to your place to practice too. Hope that’s alright. All four of us can go in one car—I know how much you care about the environment.”

“Caroline!” If everyone came over to my place, I had no doubts about who would end up having to drive everyone to the gig tonight. _Damn it_ …I ground my teeth together for a long moment before giving in. “Fine. Just ask me first next time, okay? I’ll be at my apartment in five minutes.”

“Alright, cool. Just hurry up.”

“Yes ma’am,” I snapped, sarcasm my only remaining form of protest.

Her only answer was a loud raspberry before she hung up on me. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, rolling my eyes.

My friend had been right about one thing—I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the gig tonight. Ever since I’d started performing with Caroline, John, and Nathan back in college, we’d been running through the same collection of songs: drinking songs and jigs at Irish pubs, two-step beats at country bars, Canon in D at weddings…I sighed.

It was starting to get downright monotonous, and I’d have dropped out of the quartet entirely, except that this was the only time I really got to play my violin anymore, and the only time I got to hang out with my friends. And, rude as some of them might be, I loved them dearly. I sighed. Well, nothing quite like bonding over mediocre songs at live music night at a dive bar like The Fiddler’s Elbow, I thought as I pulled into my apartment complex.

“Five minutes, my ass!” Caroline was waiting for me, hands on her hips. One foot was tapping impatiently against her cello case as she glowered at me. “It’s about time you showed up!”

“Sorry, Caroline, but there’s this new-fangled thing called traffic, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it—”

I was cut off by a horn blaring from the parking lot.

“That’ll be John,” Caroline said unnecessarily, as our second violinist hopped out of his run-down truck and joined us. Nathan, our bassist, was with him, and stopped to heft his instrument out of John’s truck bed.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” John said, giving me a lazy one-armed hug, “let’s get into the air conditioning before we all die of heatstroke.”

“Or worse, before Nathan gets all sweaty like at that outdoor gig last summer,” Caroline sneered. Nathan turned bright red, sweat already beading on his forehead in the hot sun.

I gave a half-hearted laugh as I unlocked my door, still annoyed with all of them for inviting themselves over. Still, nothing was going to stop me from being a gracious hostess. _Damn southern manners._ “Welcome in, guys. Sorry about the mess,” I prefaced as we walked inside.

My apartment was never exactly clean even on its best days—the carpet was stained from the past exploits of its previous owner (the less I thought about that, the better), the beige paint on the walls was chipped and peeling, and the lumpy, lime-green sofa in the living room made the whole apartment look vaguely unsettling, no matter how many sensibly-colored throw pillows I covered it with.

The rest of my quartet filed into the apartment, setting their instrument cases on the living room floor. “Ahh, I just love your apartment, Bee,” Caroline sighed as she set her cello case on the lime-green sofa.

“Seriously?” I snorted.

“I mean it! Your apartment’s great!” she insisted, either ignoring or missing completely the roach scuttling across the carpet in front of her. “I’m still living at home with my parents till I’m done with my master’s program. I’d kill for my own place.”

“I’d kill to get out of a place like this,” John said in a stage whisper to Caroline, and I scowled at him.

“I think it’s nice,” Nathan said, folding his arms. “Hey, d’you mind if I get some water?”

I smiled gratefully at him. John and Caroline had already migrated to the kitchen, pulling sodas out from my fridge carelessly. Then again, Nathan had always been the politest one in our quartet by a country mile. “Sure thing.”

“Thanks. Hey, how’s your mom doing?”

I shrugged, following him into the kitchen. “Same old, same old,” I said. “I’m a little worried about her being lonely, though. She says she’s fine,” I added, “but she’s living outside of West in the middle of nowhere, all by herself, with no one but Bilbo for company—”

“Wait, wait,” Caroline interrupted. “Bilbo?”

I winced slightly. “Y’know, my old cat.”

“You named your cat Bilbo?” she exclaimed, glee in her eyes.

I folded my arms defensively. “I was _seven_ , my favorite book was _The Hobbit_ , don’t judge me—”

I broke off as Caroline and John dissolved into laughter, settling back onto the couch in the living room. “Oh, come on…that’s almost as bad as Nathan’s bass,” Caroline said.

“What’d you name your bass again?” I turned to him him.

Nathan turned slightly pink. “Glorfindel.”

I chuckled despite myself. “What’s a glorfindel?” I asked. “A disease?”

“He’s not a disease!” Nathan spluttered, looking deeply offended. “He’s a character in _The Lord of the Rings_ , I keep telling you to read them, Bee—”

“Nerds!” John crowed from the living room.

I ignored him. “I don’t know…” I shrugged. “I couldn’t even stay awake for the first movie. Plus, you know, I don’t have time for a whole lot of reading right now, with work and all these gigs…”

It was true: I wasn’t much of a reader these days. I’d been obsessed with _The Hobbit_ when I was younger, yes, and I did go through a Harry Potter phase in middle school—who didn’t? But that was nothing next to Nathan’s love of books, which bordered on an obsession.

And speaking of his reading obsession…

“Well, if you don’t wanna read it, no pressure,” Nathan said casually, turning to dig for something in the pockets of his instrument case. “Aha!” Grinning triumphantly, he pressed a book into my hands.

I examined it. “ _The Fellowship of the Ring_?” I read, laughing. “Why were you carrying this around with you?”

“I always carry a good book with me when I leave the house. It’s like having an old friend with you everywhere you go,” he said simply. I grinned. That was the kind of thing my dad used to say. It was a long time since I’d thought of books in that way; trust Nathan to make even the most offhand comments sound heartfelt.

I flipped through the pages with new interest. “And you really think I’d like it?”

“Since you liked _The Hobbit_ , yeah,” Nathan said. “Besides, when’s the last time you read a good book? And boring music theory books don’t count.”

I thought for a moment. “Oh! I read this really cool biography a few weeks ago,” I recalled, “about the life of Guido Monaco—”

“Who?”

“He invented the modern music staff!” I exclaimed. “I’ve told you that before!”

“Bee _eee_ ,” Caroline interrupted with a groan, “in what world is that interesting? God, y’all are such nerds!”

“You know you’re just jealous we’re so smart,” Nathan laughed in his quietly self-assured voice. I’d never managed to stick up for myself in quite the same was as Nathan could…It occurred to me suddenly that I used to have quite a bit more of a backbone than I currently did. I scowled down at the book.

“Well, I’d be happy to read it, Nathan,” I said, tucking it into a pocket of my violin case. “I’ll start it tonight, after the gig.”

“The gig!” John exclaimed. “I forgot, we have to practice!”

“We still have some time,” I said, checking my phone. “We don’t need to be at The Fiddler’s Elbow for an hour still.”

“Oh, good.”

We opened our instrument cases (I smiled slightly at ‘Glorfindel’ and Nathan grinned back at me), and dug through our binders of music.

“Hold up, what’s this?” Caroline demanded, reaching for some papers sticking out of my violin case.

“Hey!” I tried to hold them out of her reach. “No!” She poked me with her bow and I dropped the papers, which she caught eagerly. “That’s just some pieces I’ve been writing, please don’t look at them yet, they’re not done, please!” I said desperately.

“I didn’t know you were writing your own music, Bee,” John said, glancing at the papers over Caroline’s shoulder. “Hmm, that one piece looks…I don’t know, kind of weird.”

“Very creative,” Nathan added with a supportive smile.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” I muttered stiffly, trying to snatch the papers back. I could feel my face burning.

I wasn’t very good at writing my own music to begin with, but the piece they were looking at was especially rocky. The notes were plodding and slow, with purposeful creaks and snags from the bowhair on the strings to imitate the sound of a strange voice, one that I’d never been able to forget entirely, even after sixteen years…

“I know it’s bad, alright?” I snapped. “But it’s supposed to be weird, it’s based on a song my imaginary friend sang to me when I was little.” At least I’d had the foresight to not write the title, Ent-wife’s Song, on the paper; Caroline and John would never have let me hear the end of it.

“Really?” Caroline said. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Uh-huh, thank you,” I replied testily, grabbing the papers at last and stuffing them back into my violin case. “Now let’s just practice for the gig tonight, okay?”

“Alright then, geez.”

Most of the pieces for our gig were quite simple—it was our standard Irish jig set. We ran through them without much trouble. I let my mind wander as we played, my bow moving rather listlessly. My eyes slipped shut.

Somehow, between the notes, I imagined I could hear a voice echoing…I shook my head to clear it, but the voice was still there.

“What was that?” I asked, pausing in my notes.

“What?” John said, looking annoyed at having been stopped in the middle of St Anne’s Reel.

“I—sorry, nothing,” I muttered. “Thought I heard something, sorry.” We continued playing.

I shuddered, feeling unseasonably cold. The voice was still there—as loud as ever, though no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. It was a deep voice, and unsettling, and I couldn’t think where it could be coming from. In fact, it was chanting something…

Suddenly my head started pounding and I winced, faltering a bit on the coda of Morrison’s Jig. The voice in my head was getting louder. My violin slipped slightly under my jaw. My hand trembled on my bow. What is that voice? And why does it…why does it hurt so much? Finally I couldn’t bear it anymore: my bow slipped out of my hand and I doubled over.

“Bee, what’s wrong?” Nathan asked, looking panicky. “Bee?”

“I…ah…it’s nothing. Just a headache, I think.” My vision flared red, then white. I gasped in pain—but that weird chanting voice had stopped, as though it had never happened. Had I imagined it? “Seriously…I’m fine. I just need a minute.” There was a wild ringing in my ears; everything felt vaguely fuzzy all of a sudden…

With shaking hands, I set my violin down on the lime-green sofa. “Guys, why don’t you head out to the bar? Y’all can start setting up without me. I’m gonna get some food, I think, before I go, I’m feeling pretty faint.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Caroline said. “Just…take some Advil before you go, alright?” she added. “You don’t look so good.”

“Aw, thanks,” I muttered, rubbing at my temples. My head felt like it was being crushed under an anvil.

The three of them began to pack up their instruments, all looking rather concerned. 

“You’re sure you’re okay, Bee?” Nathan asked me as they made their way to the door. “Caroline’s right, you should take some Advil, drink some water or something…”

“Okay, okay,” I muttered, opening the door for them to leave. “Wow, what the hell?” I paused, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Instead of the usual bright, oppressive sunshine, the parking lot was full of heavy, dense fog. A dark blanket of it covered the cars and trees, and it felt cold—unseasonably cold. I shivered, my head pounding worse than ever. “Be careful driving through all that.”

“What d’you mean?” John and Caroline said together.

I raised an eyebrow. Wasn’t it obvious? “All that fog, duh. It’s a driving hazard. And it’s weird, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky earlier—”

“Fog?” Nathan repeated, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “What fog?”

I faltered. “What?”

“I don’t know what you’re…Bee, are you alright? There’s no fog outside. It’s perfectly sunny.”

“What do you—?” I stammered, staring out the door. The fog was still there, solid and cold. It was as real as my apartment door, as the sidewalk, as my friends staring at me in growing panic… “Of course there’s fog,” I demanded, more loudly, as though repeating myself would make it true. “It’s gotten all dark and cold out. What, you…you mean you can’t see it?” A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the chilling fog. What was going on? I could feel my blood pulsing painfully behind my eyes. Did this have something to do with my headache?

“Bee…” Nathan’s voice was higher-pitched than normal. “Maybe you should just skip the gig tonight?”

“What?” I exclaimed. “No—I’m alright—I’m just…just…” I blinked, hard. I shook my head violently. Nothing changed.

“Bee?” Even John looked freaked out.

“I—It’s nothing…I’m fine. Really, I’m fine!” I stammered, hoping none of them saw how scared I suddenly felt. “I’m just tired. You know I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Well, okay, but I…I don’t know, Bee. Only if you’re sure.”

“Yeah, honest, I’m _fine_ ,” I gritted out. I was clenching my teeth so violently from my headache that I thought they might break. I needed a moment to myself, I thought—just a moment, just to catch my breath, maybe to take an Advil. I couldn’t think with everyone standing around me like this.

“Alright, just call us if you need anything, okay?”

Still looking bewildered, the three of them walked out to the parking lot. They hadn’t walked ten feet before the mist swallowed them up entirely. I closed my door quickly, unnerved.

I leaned heavily against the door, the metal doorknob cool against my trembling arm. My eyes squeezed shut and I breathed deeply; but if anything, that made the headache worse. And when I dared to opened my eyes, I gasped.

My apartment was full of fog, too.

I stepped forward hesitantly, reaching my hand out into the mist. I could barely see my lime-green sofa in front of me. “What’s going on?” I asked—the fog distorted my voice to a muffled squeak. “Hello? Ow!”

I’d tripped over my empty violin case, which was still lying open on the carpet. I clutched at it desperately, the way a drowning man might clutch at a life preserver. _Breathe. Just breathe_ …I squeezed my eyes shut again, willing the fog away. Everything would be alright, I was fine, I was okay…

But I _wasn’t_ okay, something was happening to me—something was _wrong_ —the fog was getting thicker—surely my skull would split open from this headache. I made a feeble attempt to stand up, but suddenly my limbs wouldn’t obey my commands.

I couldn’t move, I realized with building horror. I couldn’t _move!_

A wrenching pain ripped through my gut, as though I were being speared and dragged along by a fishhook—I screamed, but no sound came out—I couldn't even hear the sound of my own heartbeat anymore.

For a long moment, I was suspended in absolute silence. I was adrift in a sea of white fog, unable to move, unable to speak. Seconds passed—maybe minutes—hours could have fallen by as my panic grew in the silent, motionless void…

Suddenly, the mist began to clear. It was over. I felt my body come back to life; I could move again. Bit by bit, the fog dissipated, and my surroundings came into view—

I bit back a scream.

My apartment was gone.


	3. I Can't See Texas from Here

_My apartment was gone._

The lime-green sofa, the stained carpet and cluttered coffee table, the walls with chipped paint and crooked posters—they were nowhere to be seen. And in their place was a cavernous room that I had never seen before in my life.

It was gloomy and dark, with the smell of smoke and old paper in the air. A weak ray of evening sunlight trickled down from a high window, casting the whole room in a sickly pallor. Thick swirls of dust caught in the dying light, and I fought the urge to sneeze. I squinted, my eyes having trouble adjusting from the brightness of the strange white fog that had clouded my vision moments ago.

This was far too detailed to be a dream, I decided. But what was happening?

My brain was still struggling to make sense of my surroundings when I heard footsteps: there was a man in the doorway! I scrabbled to my feet, my empty violin case tumbling onto the marble floor.

“Hello?” My voice echoed in the cavernous room. “Where am I?”

The man stepped closer, and I shrank back. As he moved into the dim light I saw that he was wearing robes—honest-to-God Harry Potter robes—and had a long white beard. He opened his arms wide in greeting, flourishing a weird sort of walking stick in his hand, and said something I didn’t understand.

“What?” I said, my voice coming out more like a squeak this time. The man repeated himself, his voice deep and his tone mocking, and I realized he was speaking a different language.

There was a smile on his face as he walked towards me, an unsettling mix of intense glee and smug satisfaction. Somehow that look frightened me more than if he had been glowering in rage—something about his face, sallow and hook-nosed, with cold black eyes, didn’t seem to be made for smiling.

“I…I don’t understand,” I said, feeling unnerved. “Don’t you speak English?”

The man ignored me and said something else in his foreign language, his tone triumphant, and gestured to a raised dais in the center of the room that I hadn’t noticed before. Something was resting on it—it looked almost like a large black bowling ball. I tried to get a closer look, but the man stepped in front of me.

He spoke again, more insistently this time, and closed the rest of the space between us until I was nearly backed against the far wall of the room.

“I-I don’t understand you,” I repeated shakily, craning my neck to look up at him; he had to be nearly seven feet tall. His invasion of personal space was deeply unnerving. “Just—just back up, and tell me what’s going on!”

The man—Creepy Dumbledore, as I decided to name him—didn’t answer. Instead, without warning, he rolled back one of the trailing sleeves of his robe and grabbed me by the shoulder.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest and I tried to jerk away, but the man held me in place and pointed his walking stick at me. _He’s going to bludgeon me to death with it,_ I thought wildly. _I’m going to die here in this creepy room, murdered by Creepy Dumbledore with a walking stick—_

I struggled desperately, but the man merely rapped me on the forehead, muttering more words in his strange language, and released me, alive and un-bludgeoned. I staggered back, colliding with a bookshelf behind me and clutching at the wall to stop my knees from buckling. _What was that?_ _Crazy_ Dumbledore might be a more appropriate name, I thought, before the man grabbed me by the shoulder again.

“Speak!” he commanded.

I stared at him in surprise. I understood the word as clear as day, even though I could distinguish the sound of it in my ringing ears: it was decidedly not English.

He shook me roughly. “I told you to speak!”

“Let me go!” I gasped, tugging my shoulder free and staggering away. My words echoed in the room, but they weren’t the same—they weren’t English— _I wasn’t speaking_ _English_. “What…what’s happening? Why don’t my words sound the same?” My voice sounded childish and faint in my ears.

“It was merely a translation spell,” said the man impatiently. “It would do me no good to have brought you all this way only to be stopped by a simple language barrier.”

All this way? “You kidnapped me?” I repeated, my voice shaking desperately. Kidnapped—the word echoed through my brain, making my head pound. I’d been kidnapped, honest-to-God _kidnapped_ , and taken to some ridiculous place…the kidnapper’s hideout, for all I knew. Or maybe he was some wealthy eccentric and this was his mansion? Panic rose up in me like bile. Were we even in Dallas anymore?

Crazy Dumbledore stepped towards me again, and I dodged—I dived for my violin case and ran towards the door, digging in the case for my phone as I went. The man didn’t seem to be armed, except for his weird stick, so I should be able to make it outside and call for help—

Just as I reached the open door, it slammed shut so forcefully that my hair blew back. I whirled around to see the man holding his walking stick in the air like a giant baton, pointed directly at me. _How did he do that?_ The doors must have been automated or something. I pulled on the handles with all my might, but they were locked.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he said severely. “Not until you answer my questions.”

“Your…your questions?” I repeated, my voice shaking as, once again, I heard words come out of my mouth in a different language.

The man had drugged me somehow, there was no doubt about it. That explained all that fog I’d seen in my apartment, the headache, the voices: I was hallucinating before passing out. And that would explain the weird words I was speaking now; it must be an aftereffect of whatever drugs he’d used.

And if it was all true, if I’d really been kidnapped and drugged, then I needed to get out of here and get help— _immediately_.

“Okay…I’ll tell you what you want to know,” I said slowly, keeping eye contact as steadily as I could while digging through my violin case. Crazy Dumbledore spoke again, but I merely nodded distractedly; I’d just pulled my phone out of my case, and it had no bars. _Now what? Damn it!_ And the battery was only at fifty percent. I had to get in range of a signal, and quickly, if I wanted to—

Suddenly my phone was knocked out of my hands. “Hey!” I exclaimed, flinching as it landed with a crack on the marble floor. The crazy old man was suddenly towering over me, his black eyes bulging in his bloodless face. Fury was t1wisting his features inhumanely.

“You will answer my questions!” he roared, his voice ringing unnaturally in the still air, so loud I was surprised the window by the ceiling didn’t shatter. “I did not bring you through mist and darkness for nothing. Now, identify yourself!”

“M-my name is Beatrice Smith,” I said quickly. I tried to back away from him, but my legs didn’t seem to want to obey. “I’m…I’m a market researcher for a tech company…and, uh, I’m a violinist.” With each word, the man seemed to swell with impatience, but I didn’t know what else he wanted me to say. “Uh…I’m from Dallas, but I was born in West…I’m twenty-four years old…I majored in business, with a minor in violin performance…”

“What else?” he snapped.

“What else?” I repeated, unable to stop myself. “What, d’you want my social security number too?”

Crazy Dumbledore silenced me with a dark look. “What is this company you worked for?” he demanded. “Were you responsible for the creation and manufacture of weaponry? Electric methods of long-distance communication? Or horseless transportation, perhaps?” 

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. “I…no, _no,_ I mostly do research on the changes in our clientele base. I mean…” I felt like I was missing something important. “I’m not an engineer or anything. I’ve never had anything to do with weapons or, uh, horseless transportation.”

“Is that so?” The man sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. He turned away.

“I don’t know anything about weapons or mechanics,” I insisted. “Please, can’t you just let me go home?”

Crazy Dumbledore ignored me. “I have one more question for you, girl.” He narrowed his eyes, studying my face closely. “What can you tell me of _The Lord of the Rings_?”

“What?” I was sure I’d misheard him.

“ _The Lord of the Rings_. If I am not mistaken, it is a famous tale in your homeland.”

His words hung in the air for a long moment as I stared at him. “Are you joking?” I said finally. “Are you…I mean, is this some kind of prank?” The old man stood silently, as if waiting for me to finish. I saw a vein twitch in his jaw. But I didn’t care, I’d had enough; my hands were shaking with fury. “You realize this is ridiculous, right?” I demanded, my voice rising hysterically. “You kidnap me to ask me weird questions about engineering and then want me to explain a fantasy story to you?”

The man raised his hand for silence and my voice broke off. I tried to speak again, but found that I couldn’t make my mouth move properly. “You will find, girl, that I do nothing without reason. Do not question my motives again! Furthermore, you will speak to me with respect, Beatrice Smith, if you wish to keep your life.”

I froze, my anger shifting to terror in a split second. Was he serious? Would he really kill me? I took a step back from him, my violin case still wedged under my arm. _Stay calm,_ I told myself. _Breathe. He’s definitely serious. Just look at him—he certainly looks murderous enough. So don’t do anything rash. He won’t hurt you if you just answer his stupid questions. Take a deep breath, stay calm, keep him talking, and above all, don’t freak out._

I took a deep, calming breath—and abruptly freaked out.

“P-please, just-just let me go,” I begged, bursting into uncontrollable sobs, clutching my violin case to my chest. I was at my wit’s end. “I d-don’t know anything about weapons, or…or _The Lord of the Rings,_ or whatever, I j-just wanna go home, p-please.” The scene I was causing must have been pathetic; I didn’t care much at the moment, honestly. I could feel my nose running and my eyes puffing up as I gasped for breath between my shuddering sobs. “I…I’m supposed to be p-playing a gig at The Fiddler’s Elbow right now, my-my friends are gonna be wondering where I am—I s-swear I won’t call the police or anything, if you just let me g—”

Without warning, the man swung his walking stick through the air and struck me across the face.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes. I clutched my face numbly, hardly daring to get up from where I’d fallen, hard, on the marble floor. No one had ever hit me like that in my life, and I sat in shock for a moment, not fully registering the pain. Gingerly, I prodded at my nose—it was bloody and hot and felt broken. Horrified, I looked up at my attacker.

“Answer me! _Now!”_ The man’s eyes were demonic. His voice shook the very walls of the room, and I felt the blood freeze in my veins, the tears in my eyes drying instantly. “Tell me what you know!”

“I…I don’ doh anyding abou’ _The Lord of the Rings_ ,” I said hurriedly, my voice coming out rough and congested. I sniffled and coughed and wiped at the blood dripping down my face. “I never read th’ books, and I only saw a bit o’ th’ firs’ movie,” I added hastily, hoping that would be enough.

“What do you mean by ‘movie?’”

I flinched as he folded his arms across his chest. “A _movie_ ,” I repeated as clearly as I could, between more sniffles and coughs. He stared at me blankly, as though he’d never heard of them. “Y’ know, like a story on a television?”

“A television…” he repeated slowly. “Yes, I believe have seen glimpses of such creations—glass screens on thin boxes, projecting light and color into moving shapes…A movie, then, is a kind of theatrical production displayed on such a device?”

I stared at him. “Uh…I guess?”

“It seems to be no matter: book or ‘movie,’ the story is in essence the same. Tell me, then: do you know the outcome of this story?”

“The outcome?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said impatiently. “Does the Dark Lord Sauron emerge victorious from his war? And what is the role of the great wizard, Saruman the White?” He drew himself up, his pointed chin jutting out.

“Saruman?” I repeated, thinking hard. The name Saruman was vaguely familiar—I knew he was one of the bad guys, at least. I’d been awake for that part of the movie—a wizard dressed all in white, with a white staff in his hand. “Oh, my _God._ ” I stared up at my kidnapper, finally understanding.

This guy thought he was Saruman.

A new sense of unease filled me, and I flinched at the waiting look on his skull-like face. “Um,” I stammered. “Well, Sauron loses in the end, obviously.” I didn’t need to see all the movies to know that. Nathan would never love a story so much if it didn’t have a happy ending.

The man barked out a laugh, humorless and cold. “Speak truthfully, child. You cannot be in earnest.”

I frowned. “Of course I’m in earnest,” I snapped, mimicking his ridiculous formal tone. “What story actually has the villain win in the end?”

“Ah,” he frowned. “So yours is a biased account, I can presume. Riddled with falsehoods and ridiculous notions of the perseverance of Men and Elves…am I correct?”

“Um…I don’t know. I guess?”

“Well, how then does the supposed victory of Men come about?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm now. “What circumstances could possibly bring about the Dark Lord’s end?”

“I…I don’t know!” I exclaimed. I was out of my depth here—Nathan was the Lord of the Rings geek, not me. “Why are you asking me this? I mean, why don’t you just read the books and find out yourself? Or, I don’t know—can’t you just watch the movies? Hell, just google it!” My voice was small, more desperate than angry, but it didn’t stop me from clenching my fists and standing up to look the man in the eye. “Why do you even want to know?”

Like a snake, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed my throat. I felt my feet leave the floor as he held me effortlessly in the air, black eyes narrowed in cold disgust. “I had thought you would have guessed by now, _Beatrice Smith_. I had hoped to bring back a person of intellect from your homeland—an inventor, a historian, a warrior—or at least one with knowledge of the text itself. Someone who could help me change the course of all Middle Earth! But instead,” he snarled, his fingers tightened on my throat, and I gasped for breath. “Instead, I find myself with nothing but a little girl. And not just any girl—” He gave a sharp, mocking laugh. “—a musician! How truly quaint.”

“Stop!” I gasped, kicking feebly at him, scrabbling at the long-fingered hands choking me. My vision clouded as the man shook me roughly. I felt the blood rushing to my head, and my nose throbbed painfully, bleeding freely again.

The man’s voice grew more agitated with every word, and I wondered if he was going to kill me right then and there. “After all the time I wasted studying your world through what limited glimpses my palantír offers me, I find that my efforts have rewarded me with nothing but this unintelligent—insolent—uneducated— _slattern!_ ” He shook me violently with each word, until I felt unconsciousness drifting over me. “ _Fool!_ Do you truly not know who I am? Do you still not know where you are?”

I looked at him uncomprehendingly, my head spinning wildly from lack of air.

“I am Saruman the White,” he said slowly, drawing himself up to his full height and giving each word a cruel weight. The man—Saruman—tightened his grip on my throat before throwing me heavily onto the floor. “And I have brought you to Middle Earth, Beatrice Smith.”


	4. Highway Robbery

_Middle Earth?_ My whole body ached, and I stayed frozen on the ground for a long moment, coughing desperately until stars danced in front of my eyes.

As though from far away I heard Saruman speaking again, but my pulse was pounding in my ears and drowning out his words. _Middle Earth, what’s that supposed to mean? Is he completely insane?_

I was jolted out of my thoughts when Saruman grabbed my arm and dragged me to my feet. “Were you not listening?” he hissed. “I said stand up!”

“Stay away from me,” I gasped. I scrambled back from him, coughing violently again and massaging my throat.

“Come with me, Beatrice Smith,” he said. “We have much work to do, and there is no time like the present.”

“But it’s nighttime,” I protested weakly. Saruman didn’t answer. I hadn’t really expected him to.

I picked up my violin case from the marble floor and slung it over my shoulder. The man swept imperiously from the room and I followed, staring in surprise as he grabbed a lit torch from the wall and carried it in front of him as he went. He’d really taken the whole medieval-wizard thing to heart. Did this place even have electricity? I guessed it didn’t: the whole building was ominously dark now that the sun had gone down. The only light in the halls and stairs we passed came from the torch in Saruman’s hand and a few other lit torches bracketed here and there along the walls. Shadows leapt off of dark stone corners and arched ceilings, and I shuddered.

Finally we stepped into a vast, empty hall. I paused, gaping at the sight: tall black columns and narrow windows like a cathedral’s rising up to a cavernous ceiling…

“What _is_ this place?” 

“You are in Orthanc, the great tower at the heart of Isengard,” Saruman said.

“Isengard,” I repeated sullenly. “Right.” Clearly this guy was sticking with his _Lord of the Rings_ delusion through and through. I recognized that name, _Isengard_ , vaguely, from watching the first movie. Much to Nathan’s chagrin, I’d fallen asleep through a chunk of the beginning, though. And the entirety of the middle. And most of the ending.

Now I wished that I’d paid more attention; something in that movie might have helped me. Not that I believed for an instant that he’d actually brought me to _Middle Earth,_ of course _._ The very thought was ridiculous, and it was offensive that he expected me to believe it at all. Still, I was sure _he_ believed it, just like he clearly believed he was a wizard.

I wondered where I really was. This place was enormous—too large to be an ordinary building or house, surely. Maybe a museum? But even a museum would have proper lighting, air conditioning, traces of modern technology of some kind, and I didn’t see anything like that here. Honestly, this whole place—the grand hall, the countless stairways, the columns and torch brackets on the walls—looked like a genuine medieval fortress, or castle.

I couldn’t be in a real fortress, could I? Because if I was, then I was much farther away from home than I realized. _He couldn’t have drugged me and flown me to another country or something, could he?_

Fear made my steps uneven as Saruman led me out what looked like the main entrance of the building. I couldn’t be that far from home, could I? I hadn’t been out for that long, and why would a crazy old man want to transport me out of state or overseas? No—it must be somewhere in Texas still, I reassured myself. Maybe there was some kind of Amish-type commune outside Dallas, where old-fashioned architecture like this was normal. _That might explain his crazy facial hair too,_ I thought.

The cold night air made me gasp as I walked outside. That was _another_ thing that didn’t make sense. “Hey,” I said nervously, hurrying down the stairs at the entrance to catch up with Saruman. “Why’s it so chilly out?”

“What do you mean?” he asked impatiently.

“Well, I mean, it’s the dead of summer. It never gets cold in Dallas in the summer, not even at night.”

The man turned to glare at me, the torch throwing deep shadows over his skeletal face. “I have told you already, foolish girl, that you are no longer in your homeland, this _Dallas._ You are in Isengard. It is often cold at night here, when the winds from the Misty Mountains blow down from the north.”

I nodded quickly, not wanting to provoke him further. My fists were shaking in anger. _Misty Mountains, my ass._

Wherever we really were, this place was huge. I couldn’t see much in the darkness, but the building seemed to rise endlessly above us into the night sky, blotting out the stars until I had to crane my neck to guess its height; it was a skyscraper, then. I had more luck making out the open grounds surrounding the tower. Lights were scattered here and there, fires lit in what looked like underground pits and workshops, and figures walking around in the distance, torches in their hands. They looked strange, somehow, their shapes hulking and inhuman in the darkness, but I couldn’t get a good glimpse of their faces.

The clanking sounds of metal on metal reached my ears, rising up all around us as we walked. _Late-night construction work, maybe?_

We continued down a dirt path that wound in a great arc around the tower, until we came to the door of a small building. A surprisingly normal-looking building, too, I thought, with gray stone walls and a low, flat roof.

“These are my private storerooms,” Saruman told me as he beckoned me forward. “And you are going to help me identify some of my new possessions.”

I walked inside, squinting in the dark. Saruman brandished his staff, and suddenly the torches along the walls of the room were lit, fire springing up and crackling steadily as though they’d been burning for hours.

I faltered. How had he _done_ that? There must have been some kind of automated mechanism in the torches, or something—but if so, why not just use regular electric lights? I was about to ask Saruman about it, when I noticed what was in the room.

The strangest assortment of junk I had ever seen was spread out before me.

“What the—where did you _get_ all this?” I faltered.

My first rather stupid thought was that Saruman had stolen the entire contents of a Radio Shack. Hesitantly I walked past piles of televisions, iPods, alarm clocks, hand-held radios, laptops, and other things I couldn’t even identify: countless strange-looking plugs and engines and pieces of random machinery…I kicked tangles of power cords and piles of batteries out of my way as I looked through the mess, and saw Saruman watching me intently.

“Where did these things come from?” I demanded again. Something told me this guy hadn’t bought this stuff on Craigslist.

Saruman stood by the entrance still, observing my movements severely. “These are merely some devices I have collected recently.”

“So you…stole them?”

He scoffed. “I know not to whom they belonged before; I saw them in my palantír and summoned them here, much as I did with you. These items may hold the key to the fate of Middle Earth.”

“Oh,” was all I managed to say. It was all so ridiculous, and he looked so damn _serious_ , that I fought the urge to burst into desperate, panicky laughter. _A bunch of power cords, TVs and broken wireless routers hold the key to the fate of Middle Earth? Oh boy._

Farther on down the storerooms, books were stacked in enormous piles—everything from textbooks to novels to magazines, and I counted at least five different languages in the pile nearest to me. _Now he’s robbed a library too?_

“I don’t see any copies of _The Lord of the Rings,_ ” I said, before I could stop myself.

“I have been unable to obtain those texts, despite my best efforts,” the wizard said, frustration clear in his voice. “A copy of that tale would be more valuable to me than any other object in my collection.”

My breath caught in my chest as my thoughts strayed to the book Nathan had lent me, still hidden in my violin case. I clutched the case to my chest, my hands shaking. I couldn’t explain it, but I really didn’t want this guy to know I had a copy of one of the books he was so desperately looking for. Something told me it was best that he didn’t have it… _But maybe,_ I thought, _maybe if you give it to him, he’d let you g—_

“Holy _shit!_ ” I exclaimed, my train of thought derailing completely. On one of the far walls was an enormous collection of weapons.

My blood turned cold at the sight. I looked back in horror at Saruman, who merely smiled and gestured me forward. I _hated_ guns at the best of times—the trigger-happy Texas stereotype didn’t hold any weight for me—and now here was a whole wall covered in the damn things. I knew nothing about guns, but I was still baffled by the different kinds he had gathered together—small, sleek handguns, enormous hunting rifles, old-fashioned revolvers, even some that might have been assault rifles.

I stepped back uneasily and nearly tripped over what I strongly suspected was a flamethrower. “Oh my God,” I muttered wildly, trying to force my heartbeat back to a normal pace. “Oh my _God!”_

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Near the display of guns, boxes of ammunition were stacked high, along with wooden crates and sleek, army-green cases. I opened one of them hesitantly and leapt back in shock—they were filled with grenades. Another box contained what could only be pipe bombs, and there was other military equipment I couldn’t even begin to name. More explosives, most likely, and what might have been disassembled gears from a military drone.

My limbs felt cold and rubbery; I felt a clammy sweat on my forehead. Kidnapping seemed like the least of this man’s crimes now: was he planning some kind of mass murder? Had I been kidnapped by a _terrorist?_

Suddenly Saruman’s hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. I nearly jumped out of my skin in shock, scrabbling to put some distance between us. This guy was seriously, dangerously insane.

“What do you think?” he asked me, a cruel smile on his face. The orange light from the torches threw an eerie glow on the weapons surrounding us.

“I…um…” I swallowed thickly and tried again, my voice breaking helplessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Come. There is more to see outside.”

_More?_ He led me outside the storerooms again and around to an open area behind the building, holding a torch aloft. “I have stored some of the larger pieces in my collection out here, as you see. What do you make of them?”

A row of military vehicles stood before me in the dark. I gaped at them for a long moment before Saruman shoved me forward.

Hesitantly I walked towards the nearest one—an enormous tank. I got out my phone and used the flashlight app to get a better look, and I saw a Russian flag stamped above the worn treads. _What the…?_ Next to the tank were two American Humvees covered in desert camo and splattered with dirt, and beside that rested what I could only guess was a military drone, with a small British flag on one of the narrow, five-foot long wings.

Conscious once again of Saruman’s eyes following my movements, I continued. Behind the row of tanks were a few ordinary-looking cars: a Volkswagen convertible, a red Prius, a beat-up station wagon…each one with foreign license plates. Next to these stood a helicopter, small and sleek and, from what I could tell, non-military.

“Well?” His voice startled me out of my thoughts. 

I swallowed with difficulty. “Well what?”

“What, among these objects, do you recognize?” he asked me, his tone abruptly businesslike.

“I…I don’t understand.”

“Surely you must have encountered some of these things in your homeland,” Saruman said impatiently. “Explain to me their uses, the magic that makes them function!” A fevered madness was in his black eyes, manic obsession clear on his face, and I stepped back from him.

“I…okay. Okay,” I stammered, trying and failing to articulate the depths of my panic. “Just…just…what are you _doing_ with all this stuff? You—you know you could be arrested for stealing military equipment! You—you could be, I don’t know, fueling international conflict, stealing from the all these countries, I mean, what are you _thinking?_ Do you want to get blown up? Because that’s what’ll happen when the authorities find all this! Are you some kind of war criminal? How did you _get_ all this anyway?”

The man towered over me, looking furious. “You _will_ answer my questions _,_ ” he snapped. “I do not have time to coddle you like an infant, nor must I explain my methods to you—”

“Please,” I interrupted desperately, feeling my knees buckling. I clutched the hood of one of the Humvees for support as panic threatened to overwhelm me. “Please, I don’t understand what’s going on! And I’m not comfortable being around all this stuff when I don’t know what you’re going to do with it!”

Saruman breathed sharply through his nose. “I have acquired this collection using the same spells with which I brought you here yesterday. It is quite simple,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Through my palantír, I have witnessed glimpses of your world. Fire and lightning combined to undo stone…metal and wheels and flashes of light, and other, stranger inventions for which I have no name…Your world surpasses Mordor itself in its raw capacity for destruction.”

His voice began to shake with a strange intensity, with fervor, with absolute _obsession._ I stepped back from him slowly, more afraid than I had been all night.

But he continued to speak, and I felt a fuzzy sort of numbness seep into my mind. I blinked slowly up at him, my eyelids growing heavy.

“Ah, Beatrice Smith, I have learned so much from my glimpses of your people,” Saruman said. “I have seen with my own eyes the ways in which your kind has refined the art of war. Yet many things still elude me…I cannot create such devices myself. And I cannot determine the function of many of the objects I have collected from your homeland.”

I was surprised to find myself nodding placidly at his words. How reasonable his anger suddenly seemed, his impatience…Even his talk of magic and waging war no longer frightened me.

“You see,” he continued, “I can catch only the briefest of glimpses into your world and its strange creations, and I cannot control exactly what I bring back. That is why I have not managed to obtain the text of _The Lord of the Rings_ itself _._ And it is why _you_ are here, rather than a true expert in mechanics and explosive weaponry. But you _will_ be of some use; it is too difficult, too time-consuming, to bring another human from your world here now. Such an opportunity as this could change the course of our impending war.”

The wizard’s voice resonated deep within my mind, and I found myself nodding in agreement, the fuzzy feeling in my mind growing stronger. Saruman’s voice had become pleasant, familiar, trustworthy. He just wanted my help. What was so bad about that? The cold, clammy fear that had consumed me ever since I’d seen Saruman’s storerooms began to ebb away.

It was a relief, really, this sudden numb acceptance, the absence of confusion or fear…and yet, something prickled at the back of my mind.

I hesitated.

“Now, tell me what you know,” Saruman commanded. “Share your information with me, girl, and I may be able to send you home.”

_Home._ In my groggy, placid state, that was all I needed to hear.

“What do you want to know first?” I asked obediently.

“That’s better,” the man said, offering one of his menacing smiles. I smiled back stupidly, feeling my jaw go slack. “Now,” he said, pointing his staff at the row of cars, “we will start with these vehicles.”

And so the interrogation began.

Saruman directed me from one vehicle to another, and I told him everything I knew, without hesitation. Occasionally he would take out a scroll, quill and ink, and take notes or draw diagrams by the torchlight. I don’t remember the details of what he asked or what I said; my brain had gone numb and foggy, as though I’d had one too many beers at The Fiddler’s Elbow.

I didn’t know a lot, of course. I’d told him before that I wasn’t an engineer, or an expert in weapons, and that was the truth. But now I found myself desperately wishing that I knew more: I winced at the impatience building in Saruman’s voice every time I failed to answer his questions sufficiently. I wanted to be able to answer his questions properly, to help his plans succeed, whatever they were.

The hours ticked by in the darkness, until a pale gray light appeared on the horizon, and still Saruman peppered me with questions. I was _tired_ ; I’d been tired for hours, of course, but somehow it no longer seemed important enough to mention. What did it matter, really? My voice was hoarse, my body ached from where Saruman had attacked me; I didn’t even notice until I nearly collapsed while examining the worn-out treads of the giant Russian tank, Saruman making notes on his parchment next to me. He looked down at me carelessly.

“Perhaps that is enough for now,” the old man said, and I gasped with relief. “You will return to the tower, and we will continue our work in due time.”

I took a ragged breath and shook my head, my mind clearing suddenly as though a spell had been lifted.

“You have given me much to dwell on, Beatrice Smith. The use of these strange materials…such refined metals we might create, but these chemical _plastics,_ synthetic rubber filled with air, and of course the use of _gasoline—_ these resources present a much greater problem…” Saruman continued to speak, but I wasn’t listening. 

The sun had started to rise; in the weary, trance-like state I’d been in before, I hadn’t noticed. But now…

Now I could see where I was.

I stared at the landscape surrounding me, feeling my jaw drop in horror. I wasn’t in Dallas. I wasn’t in Texas at all.

I simply _couldn’t_ be.

Mountains rose up on the horizon in front of me, jagged, snow-capped, and _very_ real, silhouetted dramatically against the sunrise. A dark, wild-looking forest bordered them, spreading over miles of steep hills in all directions. I looked around me in panic, blinking uncomprehendingly at the view around me. _What was going on?_

I whirled around, my heartbeat roaring in my ears; then I saw the building— _Orthanc—_ in the pale dawn light. A skyscraper, I’d thought at first—I was wrong.

It was an obelisk, ancient and obsidian-black, rising impossibly high into the sky, so high that I had to crane my neck to see the very top. Time seemed to stand still as I gazed up at it, uncomprehendingly. This was all too much to bear.

“ _Where am I?”_ I shrieked, my voice escaping my throat in a wild, gasping breath. I staggered backward, shaking hands flying to my mouth. I had to be seeing things, or losing my mind, I just had to be—but how could this not be real? “ _Where am I?”_

A hand caught me by the shoulder, bringing me abruptly back to earth. “I do not have time for this nonsense,” Saruman snapped. “I have explained to you time and again exactly where you are. Now _control yourself,_ and we will go back to the tower.”

Numbly I shook my head, still reeling backward—this wasn’t right—there had to be some kind of mistake—how could I be so far from home?

My head spun violently, and I felt my legs give out underneath me. My vision went dark.

And for the first time in my life, I passed out.


	5. Friends in Low Places

I opened my eyes groggily, and squeezed them shut again when my head started to spin.

Where was I? The ceiling above me was unrecognizable. The bed in my apartment wasn’t this scratchy and thin, surely. My whole body ached, too, as though I’d tumbled down a flight of stairs. What had happened to me? With an enormous effort, I sat up and looked around, hoping to make sense of things.

I was in a prison cell.

Melodramatic, yes, but there was nothing else it could be. The bed I’d been lying on was more of a lumpy pile of straw, held together by a mildewing mattress that looked like it had been _chewed_ on by something. My violin case was on the stone floor next to the bed, and a small tin bucket rested in the corner, but other than that, the cell was empty. A heavy wooden door stood at the far end of the room, and I walked up to it, untangling pieces of straw from my hair. The door was locked, unsurprisingly, but there wasn’t even a handle on my side.

“So it wasn’t a dream,” I said numbly. My words came out in that strange other language I had spoken the night before, and my breath hitched. “It wasn’t a dream.”

I wondered if I should pinch myself, just in case, but my body already ached so much I decided it wasn’t necessary. “I was kidnapped,” I said out loud, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “I was kidnapped, and now I’m locked in a medieval-looking prison cell.”

I had to say the words out loud, just to assure myself it was real; it seemed unbelievable that less than a day ago I’d been at work, sneaking onto Facebook when my boss wasn’t looking, then meeting up with my friends, practicing my violin…

Fighting the urge to scream—or maybe vomit—I turned to the window above the bed. It was too high to see much out of, but I stood on my violin case, jumped, and managed to grab onto one of the window’s bars and pull myself up high enough to peer out.

 _Mountains._ So I hadn’t imagined that, either.

With a wince, I dropped back down to the floor and put my head in my hands. “I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m locked in a prison cell, _and_ I’m in…I’m in Middle—”

I choked on the words. It wasn’t true. Of _course_ it wasn’t true. What was wrong with me? Even saying it out loud seemed ridiculous.

No, sooner or later I’d find out what was really going on, and make it back home. After all, I’d been missing for a while now; my friends must have called the police when I hadn’t shown up at the bar for our gig.

Was there a team of investigators looking for me? I imagined them breaking down the door of my apartment: maybe they would find a long white hair on the carpet and they’d be able to track Saruman down. I laughed hollowly; it seemed impossible that they’d have his DNA or fingerprints on file or anything, but you never knew. I imagined myself pointing at the wizard in a police lineup: _That’s him, officer. The one with the beard and cloak_.

I laughed again, louder this time, on the verge of hysteria. Panic was threatening to overwhelm me. No, no, I had to keep my head! There had to be something constructive I could do.

I dug through my violin case. My phone was still there, the case cracked from where Saruman had thrown it onto the floor last night. Still no bars. I waved it around desperately, trying to find a signal, but I wasn’t really surprised anymore when it didn’t work.

I opened the camera on my phone and used it as a mirror, rubbing at some of the dirt and dried blood on my face with a sigh. I looked absolutely horrible. My nose was swollen and deeply bruised, and yesterday’s mascara was smeared, raccoon-like, under my eyes. “Looking good, Bee,” I muttered.

Suddenly my cell door unlocked with a _thunk_. I scrabbled to my feet as the door creaked open.

A young man stood there, looking for all the world like he’d just come from a Renaissance fair. He wore a threadbare tunic, some kind of thick brown leggings, and muddy boots. A long knife was strapped to his hip. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and his long stringy black hair fell into his thin, sunburned face.

I backed away from the door. “Who are you?”

“A s-servant of Saruman,” he muttered, his eyes trained on his boots. I winced; his teeth looked as though he’d never been to a dentist in his life. “I’ve br-brought you your food, miss.”

I hesitated. He certainly looked crazy, with the whole medieval getup, but he couldn’t be _completely_ insane, could he? “Hey…you don’t believe in all this, right?” I asked, hardly daring to hope. Maybe, just _maybe_ , this guy could help me. “You don’t believe this whole…‘Middle Earth’ thing, do you?”

“I…I do not understand,” the man said, sounding wary. He still refused to meet my eyes, looking instead at a spot on the floor. “J-just take your food, miss.” He tried to shove the tray of food into my hands, clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible.

“Wait, hold up,” I crossed my arms, not wanting to miss my opportunity. “Just tell me, where are we? I mean, where are we _really?_ ”

He hesitated, now staring determinedly at the ceiling. “I do not understand,” he repeated, his voice shaking. “S-surely the wizard has—has told you that you are in Isengard.”

I wanted to scream. “No, no, _no!_ I don’t care where he _says_ we are. I want the truth! I know Isengard isn’t a real place, _you_ know it’s not a real place, and you know that man isn’t a _wizard!_ He _can’t_ be! Can’t you just—just _please, please_ start making sense?”

The man shook his head, looking baffled.

I took a deep breath, clenching my fists. I didn’t want him to see how close to tears I was. _How could he have the same exact delusions as my kidnapper?_ “Look, let’s…let’s just try again, okay? We’ll start out simple. My name is Bee. Beatrice Smith. And I’m from Dallas. Now then, what about you?”

The man’s hands were shaking now; he looked positively terrified. “M-my name is Einar, miss. I hail from Dunland.”

“Where’s Dunland?” _Please, please be somewhere in Texas or something, please-please-please—_

“Just to the n-north, miss. W-west of the Misty Mountains.” Einar was frowning now, as though insulted that I hadn’t heard of the place. I sighed in frustration, and decided to give it one last shot.

“Look, Einar, please, I need to get out of here. I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m really far from home. Can’t you help me out? Do you, I don’t know, have a cell phone I can use? Mine doesn’t have bars, and it’s running out of battery.” I held up my phone to show him. 

Einar leapt back as though burned, yelping something in a language I didn’t understand. He made a strange zigzagging movement with his hands over his forehead, like he was warding off an evil spirit. I stared at him in bewilderment. “Y-your f-f-food, miss,” he stammered, pressing the tray into my hands so hastily that the cup of water splashed onto my shirt.

“Wait, wait!” I exclaimed, sensing that he was about to lock the door and run off. “What’s wrong with you? What are you so scared of?”

“P-please, miss,” Einar said, backing out of the room and staring fixedly at my shoes. “D-do not put a c-c-curse on me or my family. I want n-nothing to do with you or your sorcery!”

I nearly dropped the tray of food. “Sorcery?” I repeated furiously. “ _Sorcery?”_

“I did not m-mean to anger you, miss! I—forgive me—”

The rest of his stammering words were cut off as he slammed the door shut behind him.

I was left alone once again.

I heard his hurrying footsteps retreat down the hall. _He was afraid of_ me _the whole time?_ I thought, stunned. I looked at the tray of food in my hands numbly: a tin cup of water, a hard roll of bread, and a lump of vegetables and unidentifiable meat. _Prison food._

I burst into tears. Really, I didn’t care about the prison food—Einar could have brought me all-you-can-eat barbecue and I wouldn’t have cared—but I couldn’t _believe_ that he was just as crazy as Saruman. How could that be possible? There had to be some kind of explanation, _something, anything, think, Bee, come on!_

With a shuddering breath, I sat down on the floor and did what I always did when I was in over my head: I started taking notes. Digging through my violin case, I dug out a pen, and using the back of some sheet music, began writing.

 _Things to figure out,_ I headed the paper. There, nice and simple. _Where am I?_ was the subheading. _Mountains, forests + cold = not Texas. How did Saruman get me here—Drugs?_

I sighed. Maybe this was hopeless. I felt stupid writing all this down, too. I plowed on anyway. _Speaking a different language; writing in a different language—Mental problems? _

_Kidnapper made me answer questions yesterday; I couldn’t think straight—Hypnosis?_

_Prison guard just as insane as kidnapper. Acts like he never saw a phone before. Thinks I’m from another world—Cult member?_

_Saruman stolen weapons, electronics, books—plotting terrorism?_ I shuddered at the memory of the night before. Stockpiles of explosives shadowed in torchlight, the wizard staring hungrily at his collection as I pointed out the various gears and mechanisms of the vehicles he’d stolen—

I shook my head, pressing my fists into my eyes. I’d never been so afraid in my life as I’d been last night—it was horrible, all those weapons still sitting in the storerooms, and none of it made sense, none of it—

Writing all this down was a stupid idea, I decided. I’d hoped that getting it all down on paper would make it seem less ridiculous; maybe I would see a pattern in everything that I hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly I’d make sense of everything that was happening. But instead, all I’d decided was that it made even less sense now than before.

 _Solution #1. You’re hallucinating._ I wrote, the pen shaking in my hand.

_#2. You’ve been drugged._

_#3. You’re a contestant on the world’s worst new reality show._ I laughed hollowly, tears streaming down my face now. I didn’t believe any of those explanations, not even for a minute. This was all too vivid, too painful, too detailed—whatever was happening, it wasn’t staged, and it wasn’t all in my head. Which left:

_#4. You’re really in Middle—_

I stopped. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t write it down. I just _couldn’t._

With a scream of helpless panic, I crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.

The rest of the day passed slowly.

I barely moved from my spot on the floor. I picked halfheartedly at my prison food, blanching at the taste. I typed out text messages for my mom, for Nathan, Caroline, and John, and pressed _send_ even though I knew they wouldn’t go through. I scrolled through my music, listlessly tapping my foot against the stone floor to the melodies and watching as the sun slowly sank beneath mountains on the horizon.

Suddenly I heard my door unlock again. “Einar?” I sat up.

The door opened just a crack, and Einar’s face came into view, eyes downcast. He was pale and shaking.

“I have more f-f-food for you, miss, but please, cease your spellc-casting before I enter.” He was still staring at the ground. 

“What? What are you talking about?”

He pointed, with a trembling hand, at the bed. My phone was sitting there, music still playing from the speakers. “Th-that, miss, that unearthly noise. It is not _n-natural_ —”

“It’s Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G Minor—”

“I care not wh-what you c-call it, but please, just cease it at once!”

“Fine!” I snapped, turning the music off. I wasn’t in the mood for his strange behavior. “No more _unearthly noises_. It’s safe to come in.”

The man let out a shaky breath and entered the room. “Y-your…your inc-c-cantations were l-lovely, miss,” Einar said carefully, his voice trembling worse than ever. “I m-m-meant no offense.”

“It’s all good,” I muttered. “I never got the hang of that piece myself, it’s famously impossible to play. _God_ , I miss my violin.” I ran a hand through my rat’s nest of hair. “I mean it. I’ve practiced every day without fail for five years, and now I can’t, all because I set my violin down on my stupid couch instead of putting it back in my case before I got kidnapped?” I sighed, seeing the bewilderment on Einar’s face, and rambled on regardless. “I mean, I actually kinda like the idea of being stuck in a cell in a tower, playing the violin. It’d be like a fairy tale,” I went on, cracking a small smile. “Ideally, I’d be wearing a flowing dress or something, with the wind blowing through my hair, you know, something more princessly than this. D’you know what I mean?” 

“I c-can’t say that I do, miss,” Einar mumbled, looking bemused. He held a torch in his hand, and the shadows playing across his face made him look even younger than before. I wondered what such a young guy, even one as poorly dressed and dirty as him, was doing working for a man like Saruman.

He handed me a tray of food, identical to my previous one. “Thank you,” I said again. “I was worried I’d only get one meal a day in here.”

“Aye, well, you’re s-s-supposed to,” Einar said awkwardly, now staring determinedly at his shoes. “I j-just thought, well, even s-sorceresses need to eat, miss. And one p-plate will hardly go amiss in the k-kitchens.”

I blinked in surprise. “Oh! Well…gosh. Thanks, Einar.” The poor guy looked even more terrified than before, and made a dismissive noise in his throat as he hurried toward the door. “Wait,” I stopped him. “Um, look, man, while you’re here…I need to use the bathroom.”

“You…wish to take a bath?”

“ _No_ ,” I exclaimed. “I need to _pee,_ Einar. Can’t you take me to a toilet?”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, eyes flicking to the bucket in the corner of the cell. I stared at him. “What…oh no.” _No way in hell._ “The _bucket?_ ” I said desperately. “You want me to do my business in a _bucket?_ ”

Einar’s face went slightly red as he backed out of the cell. “Goodnight, miss.” 

“Oh, come _on_ —” The door slammed shut, cutting me off. I sighed as I heard the lock thunk loudly into place. “Well, that’s just _great_.”

I approached the bucket like a prisoner heading to the gallows. _Be strong, Bee._ I cringed. This was so humiliating. There wasn’t even toilet paper! I steeled myself, and managed to do my business without making too much of a mess, cursing Saruman and Einar and Isengard all the while.

When I was done, I sat down on the straw bed and cried into my tray of food. It started slowly enough, just a few self-pitying tears rolling down my face, but soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body shaking helplessly as I took in everything that had happened to me.

“I wanna go _home,_ ” I sobbed, burying my face in my hands and flinching when my palm pressed against the bruises and cuts on my face. I curled up into a pathetic ball on the bed, crying in the dark until I could barely breathe.

Maybe, somehow, things would make sense tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to be a good writer: you should make your character try desperately to get back home, it’ll make her interesting and relatable
> 
> The world right now: lol screw you why would anyone want to come back here


	6. Title Drop

Tomorrow came at last, but things still didn’t make sense. Frankly, I was starting to think that things might never make sense again.

I’d slept fitfully into the early afternoon. Between the ominous sounds of construction outside my window and the screaming of crows flying around the tower all night, I was ready to rip my hair out in exhausted frustration.

I grabbed my phone with a lethargic hand. Six percent battery left; still no bars. I took a deep breath; after spending most of yesterday sobbing uncontrollably, I’d made a pact with myself: I wouldn’t cry again—not a single tear—until I made it back home. After all, I’d cried more in the last two days than I had in the past two years put together. It had to stop.

With a now-familiar _thunk_ of the lock, the cell door opened. “Morning,” I muttered as Einar appeared in the doorway.

“But it is after n-noon, miss.” Einar glanced up at me briefly, before looking quickly back down at the ground. “Your f-food,” he offered, handing me a tray with the same stale bread, mushy vegetables, and unidentifiable meat as yesterday. “And the w-wizard is occupied, I believe, with other m-matters today. He expects a g-guest to Isengard soon, I have heard, and is making pr-preparations. Perhaps you will c-continue your—your work with him after his guest departs.”

“Oh. Great.” I swallowed heavily. “Thanks, Einar.” In all my panic at being locked up and possibly being in a make-believe book universe (I winced as I realized how ridiculous that sounded), I’d almost forgotten that Saruman said he’d be coming back to continue his interrogation.

Numbly, I watched my guard clear away the empty food trays from yesterday, and I winced in sympathy as he replaced my pee bucket with an empty one. “I bet Saruman isn’t payin’ you enough to do this job,” I muttered sourly.

Einar didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards briefly as he left the room, and it occurred to me that, against all odds, I might have made a friend here.

The day passed even more slowly than yesterday, if that were possible.

So far I’d succeeded in my not-crying pact, but without an outlet for my panic, I was at my wit’s end. I paced back and forth across my cell like a caged animal, pulling at my tangled hair and biting at my nails until I nearly drew blood. I was going to lose my mind in this cell—if I hadn’t lost it already.

The shadows lengthened on the walls. The battery on my phone eked away to three percent as I listened to more of my music to pass the time. And despite myself, my thoughts kept drifting to the book I had tucked away in my violin case. I’d been trying to ignore it—why feed the insane thoughts drifting through my mind, after all?—but I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe it could help me figure out what was going on.

It was early in the evening when I finally gave in to my curiosity. Bracing myself, I opened my case and pulled out Nathan’s copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring._

My hands shook as I examined it in the gold evening light _._ The book was a hardback, but small, like the pocket Bible my mom used to carry around, and it was clearly very well-loved: the edges were frayed, and deep cracks had formed in the book’s spine. I studied the image on the cover of the book for a long moment: nine silhouetted figures walking along a path, one leading a pony, one with an axe, one with a bow and quiver slung over his back, one leading the group wearing a pointed hat and carrying a staff like Saruman’s…This was the Fellowship; I knew that much. I flipped the book over.

“‘No imaginary world has been projected which is at once so multifarious and so true,’” I read aloud. It was a quote from C. S. Lewis, emblazoned in gold letters; the words sent a chill down my spine. _Even C. S. Lewis is going on about how real this book is,_ I thought impatiently. _What is wrong with everyone?_ “‘Here are beauties which pierce like swords, or burn like cold iron.’”

I opened the book hesitantly, irrationally afraid of what I might find, and flipped through the pages until I found a map of Middle Earth. I sucked in my breath sharply. “Isengard,” I read, seeing a tiny tower marked on the page, nestled between a huge mountain range and a forest. _And there’s Dunland,_ I noticed. _To the north, just like Einar said._ I stared at the mountains on the map, my blood feeling cold and thin in my veins.

Standing up shakily, I looked back and forth from the map in the book to the mountains out my window, panic building up in my chest until I thought I might burst. Were the mountains in the same place out my window as on the map? I couldn’t tell, but it certainly looked like it; so what did that mean? Did that mean—

I nearly jumped out of my skin as the cell door unlocked.

I whirled around, my heart pounding painfully. “Jeez, Einar, you scared me,” I gasped—but it wasn’t Einar in the doorway.

Another man stood there, dressed in the same Renaissance-fair-hobo style I was getting accustomed to. “Who are you?” I asked hesitantly, hiding the book behind my back hastily.

“Tarbyn, son of Felmyn,” the man said carelessly, as though pleasantries like that were a waste of his time. He stepped into the cell, holding up a lit torch in the twilight, analyzing me closely.

Tarbyn looked directly at me as he spoke, clearly unafraid of me the way Einar was. He looked just as unkempt and dirty as Einar, but bigger, broader, and at least ten years older, with leathery-looking skin and a wiry beard. Something unpleasant shone in his eyes, too, and I stepped back. But maybe it was just the lengthening shadows and my heightened paranoia making him look so creepy, I thought. “So are…are you from Dunland too?” I asked him, trying and failing to sound lighthearted.

“Aye.”

Tarbyn stepped closer. I stepped back. “What are you doing here? Where’s Einar?”

“I came to see if the rumors were true, about the sorceress the wizard collected from a far-off land.” He sneered. “They seem to have been greatly exaggerated.”

I crossed my arms, prickling at the word ‘collected’ but not wanting to make him mad. “Well…I’m sorry to disappoint you, then,” I said blandly, but it seemed that Tarbyn wasn’t finished.

“After all the rumors I’ve heard, all the efforts the wizard’s gone through, this is it?” the man slurred, staring at me accusingly, and I wondered suspiciously if he was drunk. “After all, I heard tell Saruman has a flying machine stored away from your world—this ugly, scrawny thing is all he’s brought back?”

“Flying machine?” I repeated, confused. “You mean the helicopter?” The man shrugged in response, taking a steady step towards me. I swallowed. “Um, while you’re here, though, I have a question for you,” I added, hoping to distract him; I didn’t like the look on his face, predatory and mocking. “Can you just explain to me, in very, _very_ clear terms, where I am?” This might be my last chance, I thought wildly. I was grasping at straws now, I knew, but I had to be sure.

Tarbyn raised a bushy eyebrow and folded his arms. “What do you mean? You’re in a cell in Isengard.”

My eyes narrowed, and I opened the map in my book again. “And where is Isengard? _Geographically_ , I mean.”

He looked at me as though I’d been dropped on my head as a baby. “North of the Riddermark, and south of Dunland and the Misty Mountains. It borders the forest of Fangorn and lies along the river Isen.” He snorted impatiently. “A child would know all this.”

But I wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. I was studying the book, tracing my hand over the black lines of the map. They were all there… _Fangorn, the river Isen, the Misty Mountains..._ everything was just like Tarbyn said—

Suddenly the book was wrenched from my hands. _“Hey!”_

“What do you have here, sorceress?” Tarbyn examined the book in the torchlight. He pulled at a page curiously as though he’d never seen paper before, and the map tore free from the book with a horrible ripping noise.

“Stop it!” I exclaimed. “What’d you do that for? That’s my friend’s book!” I scooped up the fallen page in my hands. Nathan would be furious. 

“I have never seen a _book_ like this,” Tarbyn observed. “Witchcraft from your homeland, I imagine.” He tossed it onto the floor with unease in his eyes, as though he’d been handling a live snake.

I clutched the torn page in my hand so hard it started to crumple. I should have known that this man would be just as crazy as Einar or Saruman…in utter desperation, with my last dying ember of hope, I tried one last time. “Have you ever heard of Texas?”

Tarbyn looked at me as though I were crazy. Maybe I was. “Teck-sis? No.”

“The United States of America?”

 _“No._ I’m growing tired of these questions.”

“What about…what about a story called _The Lord of the Rings?_ Have you ever heard of a man called Tolkien? What about—”

Without warning Tarbyn struck me across the face. “That’s enough _nonsense!_ Women like you shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”

I staggered back, tears of shock welling in my eyes. I tasted blood on my lip. “You say we’re in Middle Earth?” I yelled, backing a good distance away from Tarbyn. I was shaking from head to toe, and wondered briefly if I was going to vomit. “Well, I don’t think much of y’all’s manners in Middle Earth, _asshole!_ ”

Suddenly Tarbyn was only inches away from my face, and the smell of horses and alcohol was strong enough to make me gag. So he’d been drinking, then—my heart sank even as my blood turned to ice. He grabbed me at the juncture between my shoulder and neck, his thumb pressing against my windpipe. I strained away from him, struggling to breathe—

“T-Tarbyn!”

The man whirled to face the cell door and sneered. Einar stood there, pale and homeless-looking as ever, a torch in one hand and a small tray of food in the other. “Evening, Einar,” Tarbyn said casually, and I managed to wrench myself away from him, gasping for breath and shaking. “Come to see your friend?”

Einar stepped back nervously, looking at the floor. “N-no, I…I only—”

“Frightened of your own shadow, you are,” the man laughed.

“Y-y-you know the Wh-White Wizard will not w-want you to lay a h-hand on her,” Einar managed, his voice strained as he set down the tray of food on the ground. Despite myself, I felt a sudden pang of affection for the poor guy. “Y-you know he spent y-years inv-venting a spell just to bring her here.”

Tarbyn jutted out his chin and for a moment I thought he might hit Einar, but he just snorted and spat on the ground between them. “Aye, you’re right,” he conceded, looking thoughtful. “The wizard’s gone half mad spying on this other world.”

“E-exactly,” Einar said, looking relieved, but Tarbyn wasn’t done yet.

“All those years the wizard spent, studying his little scrying glass, sending things there and bringing things here, and for all his efforts he winds up with that scrawny thing,” he sneered, sending a mocking look my way. “I don’t know why he’s even kept her alive,” he added. “If I were the wizard, I’d’ve thrown her to the orcs without a second glance, sorceress or no.” He laughed at the horror on my face, but something he’d said gave me pause.

“Wait,” I exclaimed. “What d’you mean, he sent things there? Saruman sent things _from_ here to my—”

Tarbyn’s fist connected with my jaw for the second time, and stars exploded behind my eyes. “I told you not to speak unless spoken to!”

“Tarbyn,” Einar protested weakly, eyes darting between us.

“You were right, Einar,” Tarbyn sneered as he advanced towards me, his hand grabbing my throat again. “The wizard worked far too hard to end up with this scrawny, nosy little sorceress, if a sorceress she really is. He would probably reward me for ridding him of a burden such as her.” He pulled me closer, and I jerked my knee upwards the way I’d seen women do in movies, making satisfying contact. Tarbyn released his grip on my neck but swung the torch in his other hand at me, so close that the heat seared at my face as I leapt back. With a snarl, the man lunged at me, eyes burning in the torchlight.

Some instinct told me to use my phone, and without thinking I grabbed it from my pocket, brandishing it in front of me like a weapon. I thought for sure Tarbyn would laugh at me again, but instead he faltered, staring at the white light of my phone’s screen as though mesmerized, suspicion in his beady eyes.

Quickly, I opened my music and pressed play: the third movement of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony shattered the silence of the cell.

“What is that? An incantation of some kind?” Tarbyn snarled. By some miracle, he was backing away now, the blood draining from his leathery face. “Stop it!” Both Tarbyn and Einar looked uneasy, clammy, as though I were truly putting a spell on them.

They had never heard a symphony before, I realized. The truth was clear on their stunned faces: they had never even conceived of such sounds, let alone that that noise might come out of a little device like the one in my hand. Seizing my chance, I turned up the volume as high as it would go, the strings and percussions and brass rising in a wild, bombastic crescendo so dramatic that the unease on the men’s faces was transforming into terror. I would have laughed at the way their jaws dropped, but my heart seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in my throat.

Without another word, Einar fled into the hall, beckoning the other man to follow, and I felt a twinge of guilt at the fear in his eyes. Tarbyn hesitated—he jerked forward as if to knock the phone out of my hand, then seemed to think better of it, clapped his hands over his ears and ran after his companion. Einar gave me one last frightened look and slammed the cell door shut behind him.

I didn’t move for a long time after they’d gone.

My whole body was numb. I stood motionless in the dark, my heartbeat drowning out the symphony still blaring from my phone. Finally my body came back to life; I hugged my arms to my chest, rubbing at my neck and face as though trying to scrub away the feeling of Tarbyn’s grasping hands on my skin.

I couldn’t believe he had threatened and hit me like that, or that I’d managed to scare him away, at least for the present. And I couldn’t believe that after all this, everyone in this tower still held that we were in Middle Earth, that _The Lord of the Rings_ was true.

I couldn’t believe it…I just _wouldn’t._ Middle Earth wasn’t real. It was the product of an old professor’s imagination, it was fiction—magic and wizards and dragons and things I’d stopped believing in decades ago…I stood there, trembling, thinking about all the things I’d learned since arriving here, and I finally broke my promise to myself and let out a sob of despair.

The book had been right, hadn’t it? The map was accurate, and then there was that quote on the back—the quote that made my blood freeze and my breath catch in my chest—I buried my face in my hands—no, _don’t cry, don’t cry—_ but it was all _real,_ how could it be _real?_

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I breathed, and saying it out loud made me more certain than ever. “Oh, God, it can’t be—”

Abruptly the music stopped.

 _“No!”_ I jabbed at the home button on my phone, but it was too late. The light on the screen went out, throwing the entire room into darkness. The battery had run out at last. And with it went all my connections to my friends and family, to my whole world, and now… _God,_ now I was entirely alone. I sank to the ground, feeling farther from home than I’d ever been in my life.

I was afraid, then, in the pitch dark, the all-consuming silence of my cell, afraid in a way I had never been before. I was lost, utterly and terribly lost, immeasurably far from home, and I could see no way of getting back. And in the absolute isolation closing in around me in the dark, I knew somehow, with complete certainty—

“I’m in Middle Earth,” I whispered. 

I groped around in the dark until I found the book that Tarbyn had thrown aside, and clutched it in my hands like a lifeline. I sat down on the ragged straw bed, staring numbly into the darkness. I didn’t cry anymore; all my tears had gone. I straightened my shoulders in the dark, my hands steady on the book in my lap. Something was steeling itself inside me, the sheer force of it making my head spin—it pierced like swords and burned like cold iron, and I knew then that no matter how, no matter what it took, I was going to find my way home.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. The fear, the grim resolve, the lightheadedness of knowing _I was in Middle Earth_ all must have caught up to me at some point, though, because I woke up to the pinkish light of dawn flooding my prison cell. I blinked owlishly in the light for a moment, until I recognized the familiar _thunk_ of the door unlocking.

I sat up in a rush, suddenly wide awake—if Tarbyn had returned, I had nothing to protect myself with now. “Einar, is that you?” I asked, crossing my fingers as the door swung open.

But it wasn’t Einar. It wasn’t even Tarbyn.

My luck had never been that good.

“Get up.” Saruman swept into the cell, and despite the ridiculousness of his clothes and beard and staff, I froze; he looked every inch a wizard. _And if I’m really in Middle Earth, then he’s really a wizard, he’s a real, actual, honest-to-God—_ “Now!” The wizard snapped, and I scrabbled to my feet, pieces of straw sticking out of my tangled hair.

“What d’you want?” I asked, trying and failing to keep my voice even. If he was here to make me examine those horrible weapons of his down in his storerooms, the tank, the helicopter, the engines and military drones…I didn’t think I could bear going down there again.

“One of my servants has just told me something very interesting,” Saruman replied, a horrible obsessive glint in his black eyes.

“Oh?” I said carefully. It was then that I noticed Tarbyn, lurking behind Saruman in the corridor outside my cell. He smirked at me, and I flinched. _So he’d tattled on me somehow, had he?_

“Indeed,” the wizard smiled. “I have been informed that you have something in your possession that is very valuable to me. Something I have been seeking for many years.”

A horrible feeling was growing in the pit of my stomach. Unable to stop myself, my eyes flickered back to rest on the threadbare mattress, where Nathan’s copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ still sat, torn, dirty, and covered in pieces of straw.

“Oh.”

“Now, Beatrice,” Saruman, said, his voice low. “It is time you gave me that book.” 


	7. Spoiler Alert, Man

The book was in Saruman’s hands before I could blink. Dimly I realized I had grabbed it and held it out to him without a second thought, and I shook myself angrily. _What are you doing, Bee? Focus!_

“At last,” Saruman said, the eagerness in his voice making me shudder. He held the book up to the light from my window, studying it closely. “ _The Fellowship of the Ring.”_

“Wait,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to force down my panic. “How can you read it? It’s in English.” Saruman sent a withering glare in my direction, and I felt myself flush. _Translation spell, of course,_ I surmised, wondering when such things had started to seem so normal.

The wizard ignored me, admiring the book’s thin pages and the neat, even print; I supposed for a world that didn’t even have the printing press yet, the book _was_ pretty remarkable. “A Fellowship,” he mused, examining the cover and then flipping through the prologue. “Interesting. Now, come with me, Beatrice.”

“What? Why?” I demanded, even as I found myself slinging my violin case over my shoulder and heading out the cell door obediently. I shook my head again to clear it, but it was no use.

“I will not examine this book while standing in a prison cell,” the wizard replied loftily, sweeping off down the hall.

I followed reluctantly, glaring as I watched Tarbyn skulk away down the hall in the opposite direction. _Slimy scumbag, thanks for ratting me out_. “Why d’you need me, then?” I asked the wizard. “I already told you, I don’t know anything about those stupid books.”

_“Books?”_ Saruman repeated sharply. “There are more than one?”

I winced. _Nice going, you idiot._ “There’s three,” I said reluctantly.

“This is precisely why you are going to help me, girl. I underestimated you once, but it will not happen again. You clearly know a great deal more than you claim, even if you have not read the text itself. And if you refuse to aid me willingly, there are other ways of discerning your secrets.”

I swallowed with some difficultly, my limbs turning to lead as I walked. He didn’t mean torture, did he? But I didn’t _know_ anything! “How long are you going to keep me here?” I managed.

Saruman didn’t spare me a glance, walking even faster now. I had to jog to keep up, my sandals slapping ominously against the stone floor. “For the rest of your days, perhaps, short as they may be,” he said dismissively, as if there was no point in lying to me any longer. “At the very least, until your usefulness has run its course.”

I stopped in my tracks. “But you said,” I stammered, “you _said_ you’d send me home if I helped you. Down in the storerooms. You _said…_ ” I bit back a panicked sob. “Please, can’t you send me back? You have your precious book, just let me go!”

“It is not simply a matter of _letting you go_ ,” the wizard snapped. “Such a spell is immensely difficult to create; it took me years of effort to bring you here. I am not about to lay aside my other works merely to return a lost little girl to her homeland, especially for one as useful as you. No, Beatrice Smith, you will not be going back.”

_Oh, God._ The hall seemed to spin suddenly. I snapped my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down without success. It had never once occurred to me that I couldn’t get home from here in Isengard, that the wizard would outright _refuse_ ; what was I going to do?

“Beatrice!” The wizard’s voice shook me out of my thoughts. “Keep moving.”

_No…no, no, please…_ Tears were welling in my eyes despite myself. With immense difficultly, I moved my feet forward again, a wave of horror threatening to consume me. If my stomach hadn’t been so painfully empty, I might have gotten sick in the middle of the hall.

I followed the wizard numbly as we entered a room lined with high, narrow windows. Belatedly, I recognized it: the watery beams of light reflected off the thick dust in the air exactly as they had several nights ago, when I had appeared shaking and numb on the marble floor, clutching my empty violin case and wondering if this was all a dream.

“What are we doing here?” I breathed. It seemed unnecessarily cruel, somehow, to take me back to the room I’d first arrived in when he was never going to send me home. _And if Saruman can’t get me home, then who possibly can? If he won’t let me go, then I can’t stay here, I just can’t, not a moment longer—_

Saruman ignored my question, stalking away to stand before a marble plinth in the center of the room. On top of the dais was a large orb, like a bowling ball; Saruman rested a clawed hand on it like a fortune teller and closed his eyes. I hadn’t given the orb much notice when I’d first arrived, but now it drew my eye, despite myself.

As the wizard murmured under his breath, the orb began to swirl with white light under his hand. He held up Nathan’s copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ and the light in the orb seemed to intensify, turning a fiery red.

It was mesmerizing—horrifying—I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and if some part of me had still doubted the existence of magic, well, now I believed wholeheartedly. There was nothing else it _could_ be—magic hung thick in the air around this orb, the…what had Saruman called it? The palindrome? Whatever it was, I felt a strange, unpleasant prickle on the back of my neck as I looked at it, as though it was looking back at me, _through_ me…I shuddered and forced my eyes away.

“Well,” Saruman said, his deep voice jolting me out of my thoughts. “It seems that this book is even more valuable than I had imagined.”

“Oh,” I said weakly. “That’s good.”

“Yet you claim it is the only the first of three. Tell me, what events are recounted in its sequels?”

“Uh…” I froze under the wizard’s gaze, feeling the familiar, forceful compulsion to speak but not knowing quite what to say. “I don’t know what happens in the sequels. There’s battles, I think, and horses…” I cast my mind around desperately for anything Nathan might have told me. “Uh, there’s hobbits, elves, probably some swordfights…Orlando Bloom running around in a wig…” my voice trailed off at the impatience on Saruman’s face. “I’m sorry, alright?” I exclaimed, completely overwhelmed. “I never read the books, I didn’t even see the other movies!” I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking hard. “Just…lemme get this straight,” I clarified. “So, _nothing_ in the books has…has happened yet?”

“You tell me,” Saruman snapped. “It is the Third Age of Middle Earth, late in the summer of the year 3018—”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” I cut him off, suddenly angry. God, I didn’t understand anything here! Nathan would have been better suited for this than me; he knew these books inside out and sideways, and would probably have weaseled his way back to Dallas by now, and stolen a new flat-screen TV from Saruman’s storerooms for good measure.

“It matters not,” Saruman said impatiently. He was leafing through the book’s pages now, a hungry gleam back in his eyes. “ _Concerning Hobbits_ ,” he muttered to himself, eyebrows furrowing dangerously; he seemed to have forgotten I was there. “Why would such a text concern itself with hobbits? Unless…no. Surely not…” he began to flip through the pages with renewed fervor, and I swallowed. I may not have understood anything about this world, but I was pretty sure one of the main villains wasn’t supposed to be reading ahead in his own story. What kind of horrible things could he do with that kind of knowledge?

I shook myself angrily. Well, and what was _I_ supposed to do about that? I wasn’t even supposed to be here! It wasn’t _my_ business, the fate of Middle Earth—none of this was supposed to exist, anyway! I was just some kid from Dallas, I had to focus on getting home!

But those thoughts weren’t enough to keep me from shuddering as Saruman read on. “Bilbo Baggins…and a _Frodo_ Baggins…halfling names? It must be true, then— _this_ is why the Nine ride for the Shire—”

“M-my lord!”

Saruman snapped the book shut so violently that I jumped. Einar stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the room, looking as pale and homeless as ever. His eyes flickered toward me in surprise, but I couldn’t read his expression. “What could possibly be so important that you disturb me here, fool?” Saruman spat, tucking _The Fellowship of the Ring_ into a pocket of his robes.

“F-forgive me,” Einar bowed shakily, “but a visitor has arrived to see you, my lord.”

A stranger swept into the room, thanking Einar in a quiet voice. The guard bowed again, looking quite petrified, but my eyes were fixed on Saruman’s visitor. The man didn’t cut a very impressive figure: he was stooped with age, his gray robes frayed and his beard windblown from travel. A patched, pointed gray hat was perched over his wizened face. But the stranger’s eyes met mine as he walked forward, and suddenly I knew him. The man may as well have stepped directly out of a storybook; I knew who he was, _it was really him,_ he looked the way I’d always imagined him when I was young—

_“Gandalf?”_

Both wizards turned to me in surprise. “Have we met, child?” Gandalf asked, raising a wild-looking eyebrow at me.

I gulped, feeling rather star-struck. “I—well, n-no—I just…”

“Gandalf the Grey,” Saruman’s voice rang out in greeting, cutting off my stammering. “You have come to Isengard at last. Forgive me for not greeting you at the gates, my friend,” he said genially. “I have had a great deal on my mind of late.”

Gandalf gave a small bow. “Think nothing of it, Saruman.”

“Guard,” the White Wizard snapped. He turned toward Einar, who nearly jumped out of his skin. “Take the girl back to her quarters.”

I jumped as well. “What? No, wait—”

“But who is this, old friend?” Gandalf interjected mildly, turning his eyes on me. “By her dress, she is no Dunlending, nor one of the Rohirrim.” I looked down at myself, flustered, wondering how I must look in Gandalf’s eyes: a bony, gawky girl in ripped blue jeans and a stained purple blouse, bruises on my face and arms and my hair hanging greasy and tangled around my shoulders. I felt myself flush.

“No one of consequence,” Saruman replied, and I glared up at him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow, which Saruman ignored. “Go now,” he snapped at Einar and me. “The hour grows late, and there is much to discuss.”

I faltered as Einar beckoned me urgently from the doorway at the far side of the room. I couldn’t just _leave_ —how could I go back to that horrible cell now, when Gandalf was here—the real, actual _Gandalf—_ possibly the only other person in this whole ridiculous world who could help me?

Gandalf must have seen some of the helpless panic on my face, because he stepped forward suddenly and offered me his arm. “Come, child. I will walk you to the door,” he said kindly. Saruman shrugged impatiently and turned away, surreptitiously picking up _The Fellowship of the Ring_ again.

Gandalf’s steps were slow as we walked, and I wondered why he had wanted to escort me across the room—it seemed a strange request to make, since the door wasn’t far.

“Are you well, child?” Gandalf’s voice was low, and I raised an eyebrow—he clearly didn’t want the other wizard to hear. I shrugged uncomfortably; anyone could see that I wasn’t _well,_ but I didn’t know how to reply without seeming rude. “You seemed to know me,” Gandalf added.

I nodded faintly. “I…I’m a big fan, sir,” I blurted out in a whisper, before my nerves got the better of me.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

“I—I mean, I’ve read all about you,” I clarified. “ _The Hobbit_ was one of my favorite books growing up. When I was seven I used to wait on the front porch, hoping you’d walk by and invite me on an adventure.”

“ _The Hobbit?”_ Gandalf whispered, eyes narrowing. “My dear girl, are you referring to—”

“Yeah, I am,” I interrupted. I didn’t have much time now—we’d reached the door, and Saruman would interrupt us soon. “Look, Saruman kidnapped me from far away. Another world, where Middle Earth is just a story. You have magic; _can you send me home?_ ”

Gandalf frowned. He was silent for a long moment. “I do not know the nature of such magic,” he said finally, his tone unreadable. “I fear that may well be beyond me.”

I faltered; I could practically feel my last hopes shattering onto the marble floor at my feet. “But if you can’t get me home…” My breath hitched, and I squeezed my eyes shut to calm myself. “Look, at least…just get that book away from Saruman, then. Please. He’s evil.”

Gandalf didn’t answer, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously at me. We stood in the doorway now, Einar hovering near us, looking nervous and pale. “I mean it, he’s _evil_ ,” I whispered quickly. “He’s collecting weapons from my world, he’s trapped me here, he’s working with—with…” Damn, I couldn’t remember the name! “He’s working with the _Eye,”_ I finished in a desperate rush, hoping the wizard would understand my meaning.

“That’s enough.” Gandalf flinched and took a step back from me then, eyes wide—apparently he’d understood quite clearly. “You cannot say such things, child,” he hissed. “You could not know, it is _impossible_ —”

“But…” I shook my head, desperation making me stumble over my words. “I saw it—the Eye, I mean—in the crystal ball, that palindrome thing. And it’s in the movie—uh, the story, I mean. You can’t trust him, _he’s evil_ —”

“That is _enough_ , child,” Gandalf insisted, releasing my arm and taking a step back. His voice held a careful pity, but there was suspicion in his eyes too, and I knew I was on my own. “May you fly far from this place, and may fortune be kinder to you than it has been of late. But I must take my leave of you now.” 

_“No!”_ But before I could do anything else, the door closed with an awful sense of finality. Gandalf was gone. 

“Come, miss,” Einar’s voice reached me as though from far away. I ignored him, pressing my ear to the door to listen to the wizards speak.

_“…have acquired many objects from her strange world, and she is perhaps the crown jewel of my collection.”_ Saruman’s booming voice was reduced to a murmur through the heavy door. _“She is none of your concern, Gandalf.”_

_“So your experiments have been successful? Truly?”_ Gandalf’s voice was barely audible. _“You are using the palantír to do this. Do you think it wise?”_

Saruman laughed. _“Do not speak to me of_ wisdom! _Always you have feared such power. But why?”_ There was a long pause, in which I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat pounding against the door. _“Why should we fear to use it?”_

_“They are not all accounted for!”_ Gandalf exclaimed in reply. _“We do not know who else may be_ watching!”

“Miss!” I jumped as Einar touched my shoulder hesitantly. “W-we must go.”

“Wait,” I said desperately. I needed to hear what they were saying—I didn’t remember much from the movie, but I was pretty sure Saruman was going to attack Gandalf, and soon. I should have told Gandalf more…or would my clumsy warning be enough? He hadn’t even believed me, had he?

“Miss,” Einar hissed again. “ _Please._ Do not m-meddle in the aff-affairs of wizards, it is said.”

“But Gandalf’s in trouble,” I said hopelessly. “I don’t know what to…I don’t _remember_ , Einar, I don’t remember what happens next.” But there was nothing I could do, except hope that my warning had been enough, and that Gandalf managed to get that book away from Saruman. My shoulders sagging, I allowed myself to be led down the hall; Einar looked relieved to put some distance between us and the wizards.

But I didn’t go far. I couldn’t. “I’m not going back to that cell, Einar.” My feet had stopped moving, almost of their own accord.

The guard hesitated, looking flustered. “B-but miss, the Wh-white Wizard said to take you to—”

“No, no—I _can’t_ go back, I just can’t! I’m not going to waste away in here when the story’s going on outside, and Saruman won’t send me home! I have to do something, I have to escape, I have to _try!”_

“M-miss, I don’t underst-stand you, but I cannot let you—”

“I’m sorry, Einar.” I took a deep breath, turned, and marched off down an adjacent corridor, stunned by my own bravado. Einar had a _sword_ strapped at his side, after all, and was a servant of Saruman, no matter how kind and timid he’d been with me. But I had to get out. I had to get home. And if no one in this tower was going to help me—

“Miss, wai-wait!”

I whirled around, bracing myself for an attack, but instead found Einar frowning sheepishly, pointing at a corridor to my left. “It…it is quicker to g-go that w-w-way, miss.”

For a moment I was too stunned to move. Then, completely overwhelmed with emotion, I leapt forward and hugged him. The poor guard looked quite flustered and stepped back hurriedly, his face blotched with pink. “Go on, Miss B-Beatrice Smith,” Einar stammered. “I will t-tell the wizard you c-c-cast a spell and esc-caped.”

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak—I knew, probably as well as he did, what might happen if Saruman didn’t believe his excuse. But Einar met my eyes for the briefest of moments, and I hoped he saw the gratitude on my face before his gaze flickered back down to the ground.

I took a deep breath and ran in the direction he’d pointed. 

My violin case swung wildly on my shoulder as I sprinted away, my sandals slapping on the stone floors as I flew down hall after hall, skidding around corners and leaping down spiral staircases. I wasn’t sure exactly how to get outside, but the grand entrance couldn’t be too hard to find once I made it to the ground floor. My breath was coming in wild, heavy gasps, and it wasn’t just from physical exertion. I couldn’t believe that I was really doing this—I was defying a wizard, I was fleeing from my kidnapper, I was escaping, _I was escaping!_

The tower was suspiciously empty, I realized, after I’d made it ten or twelve floors down. I was bracing myself at each turn, expecting to see guards or soldiers waiting to apprehend me, but none appeared. Had Saruman sent all his servants away when Gandalf arrived? Or were they all busy in those weird underground forges that I’d seen outside?

It was the storerooms I made for now. I didn’t have a plan, exactly—or maybe I did, but it was so far-fetched and ludicrous that I couldn’t even form the thoughts properly.

Finally I made it outdoors, laughing breathlessly as I felt a cool breeze on my face. _Cool air in the summertime—how did I ever think we were still in Texas?_ I quickened my pace, trying hard not to break into an outright run, which might look suspicious.

Suddenly I heard a faint rumbling come from the tower. I turned back and saw a sharp flash of white light in one of the high windows. Was that Saruman? Was Gandalf in trouble? I walked faster, my hands shaking at my sides.

The mountains seemed to loom down over me as I went along the path, and I felt a giddy sort of numbness flooding my mind: these mountains were in _Middle Earth,_ there were _wizards_ in the tower behind me, I had made it out and was going to escape from my kidnapper—

But how? I swallowed. The vague plan in the back of my mind solidified suddenly into a concrete thought, and it was so ridiculous that I nearly laughed out loud. But now that I’d thought it, it was impossible for the idea to go away. _No,_ I told myself sternly. _That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever imagined._ But what else could I do?

I paused outside the door to the storerooms, digging through my violin case hurriedly—I had to organize my thoughts somehow. But I’d left my ballpoint pen in the prison cell, and besides, there wasn’t really time for taking notes right now, was there?

“Okay, Bee,” I muttered to myself, ducking into the storeroom hesitantly; I could hide in here until I came up with a plan. “Mental notes. Think. What are your options?”

_I could just run for it,_ I supplied, before shaking my head. Isengard was surrounded by that tall circular gate, made of stone and probably heavily guarded by Saruman’s men; besides, I had no idea where to go after that. I’d probably starve to death in the wild even if I managed to get past the gates.

_Steal a gun, and_ force _your way out the gates,_ was my next plan, but I swept that away immediately. I doubted I’d ever be able to stomach firing a gun, let alone shooting at someone. The thought made me feel sick.

_Fine. Just steal a horse, then._ Well, that plan was better, certainly. But I didn’t know where Saruman kept his horses, assuming he had some that were unguarded and in an unlocked stable, and there was still the problem of getting past the gates; I’d still need to force my way out with a gun. More importantly, I had no idea how to ride: I may have been from Texas, but I was a city girl at heart, and I’d never so much as ridden a pony at a petting zoo.

_Well then—I could just take one of the cars outside the storeroom!_ Saruman had four cars sitting outside the building, five if you included the tank. But the Humvees were out of gas, the old station wagon was missing both front tires, the Prius and the Volkswagon had no keys, and I could no sooner drive a tank than sprout wings and fly.

_May you fly far from this place,_ Gandalf had told me. But there was nothing else I could do—I was out of ideas, except for my first thought, that half-formed plan, too ridiculous to even consider—

A loud _boom_ reached my ears from the tower, followed by a faint, furious shout. The sound echoed eerily off the mountaintops, and I stepped further into the storeroom nervously. Gandalf and Saruman were fighting; of that I was sure now. And as much as I wanted to help Gandalf, there was nothing I could do for him anymore—I could hardly intervene in a magical duel—I would just make things worse.

No, I had to get out of here while I could; otherwise I’d spend the rest of my life helping Saruman wage war on innocent people, and I’d never get home…

_May you fly far from this place._

The idea was a ridiculous one, yes, but I found myself clinging to it desperately; I had no other options, and after all, I was in _Middle Earth_ now. _Wizards_ were dueling in a tower behind me, mountains from a _fantasy novel_ were surrounding me, and suddenly my plan didn’t seem that ridiculous after all.

And why not? I had spent an entire night, feverish and frightened and exhausted, examining the machines in Saruman’s collection.

Unlike the other vehicles, this one had gasoline—not a full tank, but enough to get me out of Isengard, certainly. It was unlocked, keys resting on the seat cushion, ready for use. It even had instruction manuals under the passenger seat, which Saruman had made me read aloud by torchlight.

It could work. I could do this.

“Arm yourself first,” I reminded myself sharply, trying to think clearly. With any luck, I wouldn’t be back here ever again, which meant I needed to take as much useful equipment from my world as I could. Hurriedly I grabbed at parcels and electronics, stuffing my violin case with as much as I could fit. I went to the mountain of books next, seizing a few from an overflowing box and stuffing them into my arms. These rooms were filled with all I had left of my world; I clutched the armful of supplies to my chest, feeling oddly emotional.

Then my eyes turned reluctantly to the wall on the far side of the room: guns were mounted on it from floor to ceiling, piles of ammunition and explosives strewn about the floor. I hesitated. Some of the electronics began to slip out of my hands as I studied the weapons; I was paralyzed with indecision.

I hated guns. _Hated them._ It frightened me almost as much as my escape plan itself, but I knew it would be stupid to be lost somewhere in Middle Earth with no way to defend myself. I walked over and picked up a gun with a clammy hand. I didn’t know what kind it was—some kind of pistol or other. I didn’t know how to tell if it was loaded, either, so I rifled through the cases of ammo until I found bullets that seemed to match the size and style of the barrel—hopefully those would do. Feeling sick to my stomach, I slipped the gun into my violin case, and, because I never did anything by halves, I picked up an army-green case of emergency flares, along with what looked like a Kevlar vest.

Unable to stomach any more, I carried my new treasures out the back door and toward the rows of vehicles behind the storerooms. I squinted back at the tower behind me: silhouetted against the bright sunlight, two tiny figures stood on the very top of Orthanc. As I watched, one of them slipped out of view, struck down, perhaps, or forced backward out of my line of vision.

_So far the movie scene is coming true, then,_ I thought feverishly. I hadn’t stopped them from fighting, or Gandalf from getting captured—but if I wanted to escape my own imprisonment, I had to hurry.

This was it.

No more stalling—if I didn’t do it soon, I would lose the last shreds of courage I had. It would work, if I acted quickly. It had to.

I braced myself, took a deep breath, and opened the helicopter door.


	8. What Goes Up

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

And that was saying a great deal, because my whole body was already shaking with the sheer impossibility of what I was about to do, so much so that I nearly stumbled over my own feet just loading the supplies I’d stolen from Saruman’s stores into the helicopter.

There was more room for the stolen goods than I’d thought there’d be in the backseat of the vehicle. Camping gear was strewn on the floor, left in disarray by their previous owner. Some wealthy adventurer used to own all this, I supposed. They probably took their friends or family out skydiving and camping in the mountains, and were baffled when their helicopter and gear went missing one day. They would never— _could_ never imagine that it had ended up in Middle Earth. “Poor thing, bless their heart,” I muttered out loud.

But I couldn’t afford to think about that right now. I climbed into the pilot’s seat and slammed the door shut decisively.

Closed inside the tiny, egg-shaped cockpit, I nearly lost my nerve then and there. My eyes darted back and forth across the helicopter’s dashboard, panic swelling in my chest. There were so many buttons and dials, a joystick and pedals and levers and a weird sci-fi throttle and _how did I ever think I could do this?_ Maybe stealing a gun and taking off on foot would have been easier. But I knew I couldn’t shoot at anyone. And I knew Saruman would catch me not five miles out of Isengard, if I even made it that far.

No, it was too late to turn back now.

It took me a long moment to even find the ignition on the dashboard. My hands shook so badly it took even longer to actually stick the key in and turn it. I flicked through the heavy instruction manual as lights sprang to life behind some of the dials and screens. Thankfully there was a labeled diagram on one of the pages, and I slowly started to make sense of the controls. The lever on my left was the collective; the joystick thing in front of me was the cyclic; the yaw pedals were at my feet. Having names for all the gears helped me calm down, creating some order out of chaos. I made a list in my head, committing the diagram to memory as I read through their functions. Maybe I could do this.

I buckled my seatbelt, and buckled my violin case into the passenger seat for good measure, feeling oddly protective of it. Now it was time to test the throttle. Keeping my eyes on the manual, I reached for the lever, braced myself, and—

The blades whirred to life above me.

“Ha!” I exclaimed breathlessly. “Ha _ha,_ yes!” Hell, maybe I really _could_ do this.

The helicopter was ridiculously loud, almost loud enough to drown out my thundering heartbeat, and the rotors stirred up a cloud of dirt in the air. I released the throttle hastily, letting the rotors die back down.

I pored over the instruction manual one more time. I’d already read aloud some of the basic flight instructions at Saruman’s bidding, that first night in Isengard. He had been stunned by the concept of a flying machine: “a great mechanical bird,” he’d said, and I’d let out a derisive laugh before quailing at the look in his eye.

I’d learned not to laugh at Saruman. I knew now just what he was capable of, and who he really was. _And yet here you are, trying to escape from him with a piece of equipment you’ve never even set foot in before_. I swallowed with difficulty. Hell, back home people took lessons, got pilot’s licenses, worked for years and years to fly one of these things, and here I was like a complete idiot, trying to do the same, just like that. God, what was I _thinking?_

A panicked sob escaped me, and I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt faint. The world seemed to spin beneath the pilot’s seat. I couldn’t do it. Why I’d even gotten into the helicopter was baffling. But I had to try, didn’t I? Saruman was never going to send me home, but there had to be someone else out there who could. This world was full of magic, after all, wasn’t it? I saw my mom’s face clear in my mind, the faces of my friends and coworkers; I saw my old run-down apartment, the lime-green couch and chipped paint on the walls. Tears welled in my eyes. I reached for the throttle again.

This time the blades were even louder. I let them speed up, and up, and up, until the engine behind me roared and my stomach flipped upside down and the helicopter’s heavy, egg-shaped body lifted off the ground.

I did it. I was flying.

The helicopter climbed into the air, its nose dipping slightly as it drifted forward, narrowly missing the roof of the storerooms. The rotors spun faster and louder than ever. My head reeled, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Oh my God…oh my—” I swallowed nervously. I was going to crash into something at any moment, I just knew it…

But I hadn’t run into anything yet, had I? I hadn’t made the engine explode, I hadn’t fallen out of the sky—those were good signs, right? I let out a nervous, giddy laugh, frightened by my own success.

The helicopter veered around the storeroom lazily, leaving it farther and farther below me. It was a good thing I’d never been very afraid of heights. My stomach lurched as the wind buffeted the helicopter back and forth, and I strained to steady the throttle unsuccessfully. I knew if this were a pilot’s exam I’d have already failed. I was pretty sure helicopters were supposed to _hover_ into the air when they took off, not lurch forward uncontrollably. But I had no idea how to get the damn thing to stay put, which meant I was drifting forward, arcing sharply to the side as I rose, the top of Orthanc growing closer and closer.

The wide, flat roof of the tower rose up to meet me on my left side. I gulped.

The wizards were there, just as they’d been in the movie. Only now they weren’t fighting one another anymore; Gandalf had been knocked back to the very edge of the tower, and even from my far-off vantage point I could see the blood on his temple. My heart twisted painfully in my chest. He wasn’t moving.

_Get up! Fight back!_ I thought desperately, before realizing that he was staring in utter shock in my direction. Saruman, too, had stopped advancing on the other wizard and was gazing at the helicopter’s ungraceful ascent into the air.

What must it be like, I wondered suddenly, to live in a medieval world—magic or no—and suddenly see a modern helicopter in flight? Then Saruman raised his staff toward me, and I decided that I didn’t want to stick around to find out. It was time to move faster, to leave this place behind me.

I jerked one of the controls forward decisively—then screamed as the helicopter nosedived violently and began plummeting back to earth.

“No— _no—stop!”_ I pulled back in the opposite direction as hard as I could and leveled out fifty feet or so from the ground. The tail careened drunkenly for a few moments, and I forced down the bile that had risen in my throat, shaking uncontrollably.

“Holy…crap…” I breathed hoarsely. “Holy… _crap.”_

Still swaying this way and that on the wind, I struggled to flip through the instruction manual while keeping an eye on the controls. I was drifting upward again, gaining speed and altitude as the throttle pushed the blades faster and faster above my head. I was nearly level with Orthanc again.

_Oh,_ that’s _what I did wrong,_ I realized as I read over the diagram. _Oops._ This was even tougher than it looked; I had to move multiple levers at once to control my acceleration, it looked like, and move them in different directions. I set aside the manual and nudged the joystick forward again, ever so gently, at the same time pulling at the lever on my left— _yes—_ I was moving forward properly now; any second I’d be past the wizards and on my way—

A deep, chanting voice made me pause. My hands faltered on the controls, reducing my speed as I looked down. The voice sent a chill down my spine, and was clearly audible even over the rotors. It was the same voice I’d heard in my apartment, a thousand lifetimes ago, when my friends gathered around me, asking if I was okay, telling me they’d see me soon…

It was Saruman’s voice, and he was casting a spell.

Suddenly I noticed the clouds gathering above the tower—where had they come from? They were solidifying and darkening as I watched, and were rotating slowly above me, as though mimicking the helicopter’s blades. “Great,” I said faintly, fumbling at the controls with shaking hands. “Now he can control the weather too?”

The entire helicopter swayed suddenly as the wind picked up, and it began to spin like a top in midair, even as I began to lose altitude again. _No, no no—_ I slammed a foot down on one of the yaw pedals, but that only made it spin faster. “Damn it, wrong pedal—” Fumbling with the controls and pedals, I finally guided the tail back in the proper direction, my entire head spinning until my stomach couldn’t take it anymore and I dry heaved, pressing my forehead against the controls as I retched and gasped for breath. For once I was glad I hadn’t eaten anything that day, though it didn’t make my stomach feel any better.

I’d managed to right the tail from spinning, but the wind had grown so strong at the wizard’s command that now it was pulling the helicopter in a swerving, faltering circle around the tower. I pushed the controls to move forward again—properly this time—but only succeeded in spinning faster around the tower—the wind was too strong for the helicopter to break free. “Come on!” I pleaded, my voice lost in the gale, but the helicopter continued to veer around the tower once—twice—I looked down in panic to see Saruman lower his outstretched arms and point his staff at the careening helicopter. A reddish light appeared at the end of his staff, forming a sort of gleaming fireball; what was he d—

BOOM.

A searing heat exploded near my face, and the helicopter pitched to the side so violently I thought it might roll over entirely. Broken glass stung at my skin, and my scream was swallowed up by a howl of wind. Freezing air shattered through the helicopter, sucking the breath from my lungs until stars danced behind my eyes. I screamed again as the helicopter began losing altitude, screamed and screamed until I was struggling to breathe—desperately I fumbled at the controls with frozen hands, and I finally looked to my left to see what Saruman had done and— _there was a hole in the door._

I couldn’t believe it. There was a goddamn gaping _hole_ in the helicopter door!

Saruman’s attack had shattered the glass and twisted the metal under the window, leaving a horrible burning smell in the cockpit that even the howling wind couldn’t get rid of.

“Oh, come _on!”_ I screamed in absolute desperation as the helicopter leveled off, still being pulled involuntarily around the tower in the wind. I gasped for breath as it careened from side to side like a sailboat in a hurricane. “Come _ON!_ You—threw—a _fireball—_ at me?!”

Caught in the magical wind hurling me around the tower, I risked a glance down at the wizard—and bit back another scream as a second ball of fire narrowly missed me. It flew wildly off into the distance, only just missing the rotors spinning above me before disappearing into the roiling black clouds overhead.

“Damn it!” I yelled, my voice cracking with hysteria. “ _None of this was in the movie!”_

I tried again to escape the magical gale Saruman had conjured, pulling at the lever on my left and pushing the control in front of me forward; but the wind was too strong. The rotors strained with the effort, and an unpleasant groaning sound came from the engine behind me.

In a panic, I looked down at the tower one last time, and was relieved to see that Gandalf had gotten to his feet. I let out a grateful sigh—at least he was okay, for now anyway, though his staff was nowhere to be seen. Gandalf stepped forward slowly; it looked like he was yelling something at Saruman. The White Wizard paused in his attack on my helicopter to face him.

The wind around the tower faltered ever so slightly. I breathed in sharply—Gandalf was distracting him on purpose—this was my chance—

_“Now!”_ I screamed, pulling at the controls again, and this time the helicopter broke free of the gale. The helicopter tore off into the sky, as fast as I dared to go.

My hands shook on the controls, but I was moving steadily now—at least, steadily enough that I didn’t immediately fear for my life. The helicopter was flying over the grounds—the underground pits, the orchards, the long dirt road leading away and finally— _finally—_ the circular gate at the edge of Isengard.

I took a shuddering breath, hardly able to believe it. I escaped.

I did it.

I was free. 

_I should have stolen the tank._

This was by far the most difficult, terrifying, ridiculous thing I had ever done.

And I’d had no idea that piloting a helicopter could be so _loud._ The spinning of the blades made a wild roar around the helicopter, and the freezing wind ripped through the hole in the door and into my hair as I flew, threatening to burst my eardrums and making my face and fingers numb with cold.

Even louder than all that was my thundering heartbeat, which hadn’t slowed down since the moment I’d taken off. It was pounding through my skull, making me dizzy—although from fear or excitement I couldn’t tell.

The helicopter lurched violently as a freezing current of air slammed into the rotors. Scrabbling at the controls, I managed to slow my downward descent, and worked at the yaw pedals until the tail stopped spinning.

Maybe it had been a stupid thought, but I’d assumed that once I was out in the open, and all I had to do was fly in a straight line, things would get _easier._

They hadn’t.

Gusts of wind were constantly buffeting the helicopter up and down without warning, and every now and again the tail would veer alarmingly to the left or right seemingly without cause. My hands were numb on the controls as I constantly tried to adjust the rotors, tail, and throttle. I knew if anyone from my world looked up and saw a helicopter flying like this, they’d assume the pilot was blackout drunk.

I still couldn’t get a proper hang of the controls, either, though at least I hadn’t hit anything yet. That had to count for something. There were a few near misses, though, as I cleared the steep hills surrounding Saruman’s tower; the wind had risen up angrily around me, and I’d nearly crashed into a canopy of trees as a particularly violent gust of wind sent the helicopter’s nose plummeting downward.

The black stormclouds from Saruman’s spell followed me miles and miles from the tower, making the wind even wilder. It took nearly a half hour of flying as fast as I dared before I lost the stormclouds in the distance, where the rolling hills of forest had swallowed up Saruman’s tower.

Finally, all traces of Isengard and Saruman were left behind. I tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but my breath hitched in my lungs; I knew I wasn’t in the clear yet.

After all, I was lost.

I squinted ahead, looking for signs of civilization on the ground below me. The hills had given way to mountains in the distance to my right, and below me they were thinning gradually into rocky, rolling plains. There were no signs of life whatsoever. _Should I just keep flying straight until I run out of fuel? Or try to land now, and take my chances? There has to be some civilization—_

My thoughts flew out of my head as a strong current of air slammed against the pilot’s window, cracking the glass further and sending the entire helicopter careening sideways. I leapt at the controls, and after a long moment of cursing and lever-pulling, the rotors angling up and down, the nose bobbing and tail swerving, the helicopter righted itself again. “Will—you—stop— _doing—_ that?” I hissed at the dashboard venomously. “ _Honestly!”_

If only I had Nathan’s book, I thought. Or, more specifically, the map Tarbyn had ripped out—then I might have been able to find a destination. But I didn’t have the map. I didn’t even know how to land, and I was in the middle of nowhere. So stopping now wasn’t an option. But what then? Where could I go? The world spread out below me, unending and empty and strange. “Oh my God,” I breathed faintly. “I’m lost in a helicopter in Middle Earth. What do I— _how_ do I…oh, my _God…_ ”

My vision blurred as panic threatened to overwhelm me. “What do I do now?”

_“Go back?” he thought. “No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!”_

The words came to me quite suddenly, and I found myself smiling despite myself. My panic cooled slightly; I was able to breathe again. The words were from my old favorite book, _The Hobbit._ I remembered reading them as a little kid, my hands nearly tearing at the pages in concern as Bilbo struggled to find his way out of the caves under Goblin Town.

Admittedly, being lost in a helicopter was a pretty strange comparison to make. But still, the words came back to me nonetheless, and my hands steadied themselves on the helicopter’s controls.

“Only thing to do,” I repeated out loud. “On we go!”

I wasn’t sure how much time was passing; my phone, of course, was long dead and despite the sheer number of dials and buttons on the helicopter’s dashboard, there was no sign of a clock. So I continued onward, every few minutes leaping to correct the helicopter’s flight whenever the wind changed or an unexpected gust hit the rotors above me.

There was no sign of civilization.

_If I was living in Middle Earth,_ I decided, _I’d live near the mountains. Snowmelt for water and whatnot, right?_ With this vaguely in mind I drifted closer to the mountain range on my right, though I still kept them at a good distance—it seemed like the wind got wilder and less predictable when I flew too close to the mountains. Did that have something to do with the change in altitude? The air temperature, maybe? I wished I’d taken a meteorology course in college; it might have helped me now. Hell, I wished I’d taken flight lessons most of all. But _no_ ; my mom had to insist on a _business_ degree, I thought bitterly, though admittedly my desired major—violin performance—wouldn’t have been very helpful in this situation either.

The sun crept forward in the sky. The tiny meter on the fuel gauge drifted lower and lower as I went. How far had I gone? And how far could I keep flying? The manual said on a full tank the helicopter could make it nearly three hundred and fifty miles, but the tank hadn’t been full when I set out, and I imagined that a hole being ripped in the helicopter door didn’t exactly work wonders for the gas mileage.

Besides, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up. I was hungry, cold, thirsty beyond belief, desperately tired, and getting whinier by the minute.

“Come _on,_ Middle Earth,” I complained, trying not to notice how the clouds looked like mashed potatoes, the river in the distance looked like gravy and the trees below me looked like steamed broccoli. “I’m _starving._ Let me find some _civilization._ I’ll take anything.”

Still, there was nothing, as far as the eye could see.

I itched to go faster, rocketing through the air until I found a city, a town, even a single farmhouse, but I knew I shouldn’t push my luck. As the day wore on, I slowed down bit by bit until I was going barely fifty miles an hour—slow for a helicopter, or I assumed so by how high the speedometer allowed—but I wanted to be careful. The vehicle was lurching and veering worse than ever, and I began to wonder if Saruman’s magical gale and the hole in the door were beginning to take their toll on the poor helicopter. Maybe it was because I was well and truly running out of fuel now, and the helicopter was on its last legs. Or maybe it was all in my head, my weariness making me jumpy and my coordination worse than ever.

I jumped as a shrill beeping filled the cockpit.

I was running out of gas.

“Well,” I told myself faintly, struggling to stay calm, “you’re lost anyway, aren’t you, so this place is as good as anywhere…”

But I still didn’t know how to land.

I slowed down even more as I reached for the instruction manual. “All you have to do is figure out how to hover,” I said reassuringly, “and then descend until you hit the ground. Right?”

Suddenly the rotors faltered. The helicopter jolted violently and the manual fell out of my hands, swept into the backseat by the wind.

“No, no, no—come on, stop falling!” I pulled at the throttle desperately, and the rotors sprang back to life, though not as fast as before. The engine made an unpleasant groan behind me. I was losing altitude. I slowed down again, trying desperately to stop the helicopter from moving forward as the ground got closer. “Just— _hover,_ damn it—come on!” How did pilots _do_ it? It was impossible!

That didn’t keep me from trying, though. I pulled forward and back on the levers, angled the failing rotors this way and that and only succeeded in pitching the helicopter forward and back so violently that my head started spinning. If anything, that made my descent even _faster_ —there was no hope for it—I was going to crash—feverishly I pulled my seatbelt tighter as the ground came rushing up to swallow me—I squeezed my eyes shut—

_CRASH._

I screamed as the helicopter’s runners tore through the earth, jerking my body against the seatbelt so hard my head slammed into the dashboard and my vision flashed red. Rock and mud exploded violently across the windshield, cracking the glass. The helicopter’s nose pitched forward and to the right, its body tilting to the side and the rotors tearing into the ground as they struggled to continue spinning. I held the controls in a death grip as the helicopter plowed forward, farther and farther, losing speed until it finally careened to the right, fell over on its side, and came to a shuddering halt.

It took me a minute or two longer to stop screaming.

I pried my hands off the controls, struggled out of my seatbelt, and fell limply into the passenger’s seat below me. With enormous effort, I stood and wrenched open the pilot’s door, which was now above my head. A shower of broken glass from the window fell into my face, and I winced and sputtered, pausing to shake the larger pieces from my hair.

Climbing out of the helicopter took the better part of ten minutes. Finally I managed to hoist myself out of the ruined door, where I tumbled onto the grass, breathing heavily as though I’d just run a marathon.

_You did it._ My stomach heaved and my head spun and I clutched at the grass with both hands, grateful beyond words to be back on solid ground. After a moment, I tried to stand up. The world spun beneath me, and I fell back into the grass. And for the second time in my life, I passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats, you've made it through the weirdest chapter in the whole story.


	9. I Walk a Lonely Road

I woke up to find myself curled up in a ball in the grass, a cricket crawling leisurely across my face.

With a scream I was on my feet, scrabbling wildly at my face until my heartbeat calmed back down. I looked around blankly, trying uselessly to get my bearings after such a rude awakening. My throat was scratchy, and my blood felt sluggish in my veins. _Probably dehydrated,_ I thought, my heart sinking. _When was the last time you had any water?_ I swallowed, but the back of my throat was dry as a desert and I wound up coughing violently. Wincing, I pressed a grubby hand to my forehead, feeling a hot, stinging lump on my temple. Had I had a concussion yesterday? I wasn’t sure, and I guessed there was no way of knowing now. “God, you’re a mess, Bee,” I muttered.

I studied my surroundings with bleary eyes. It was morning, I realized. I must have spent the entire night out cold on the muddy ground. And just behind me was the helicopter. _Oh._ I let out a shaky breath. _Right._

The helicopter was lying on its side where I had left it yesterday, its tail and propellers bent at violent angles. Huge gashes and divots had been gouged into the earth where the blades had struck as it fell. The whole thing looked so violent now, so utterly unreal; my gut twisted at the sight and I turned away.

The sun was emerging over the ridge of the mountains in the distance, and I stared around me for a long while, marveling at the endless expanse of grassland.

It hadn’t really sunk in, when I was locked in that tiny cell in Isengard, that the whole _world_ around me was no longer the same. Or maybe it had, but I just hadn’t realized what it meant until now. Despite myself, part of me had felt like all I had to do was cross the mountains surrounding the tower, and I’d be back in Texas: just past the ridge of the horizon I’d see the outline of downtown skyscrapers, interstates and cars and telephone lines…

I sat down, my heart heavy, and blinked back the tears prickling behind my eyes. The world extended around me in every direction, enormous and wild: the wide blue sky, the unending hills…suddenly I felt very small. Listlessly, I tore a handful of grass from the ground, letting the pieces drift away on the breeze. I watched them float away, my head in my hands.

Now that I was free from Isengard, what was I going to do? I didn’t know where I was, or where the nearest civilization was, only that I was a long way from where I’d began. _Safe from Saruman, at least._ That was something.

Food and water should be my first priority, I decided. I wondered if there was a water bottle in the helicopter that I’d missed among the camping supplies. Steeling myself, I approached the helicopter and hoisted myself clumsily back up to the pilot’s door.

The inside of the vehicle was in almost as bad shape as the outside. The supplies I’d stolen were scattered every which way, covered in pieces of broken glass from the windshield and pilot’s window. I allowed myself to tumble inside, where I stood in a crouch on what used to be the passenger’s-side wall.

Carefully, I began shifting through the supplies, and tossed whatever still looked useful up and out the open pilot’s door to land on the grass outside. Up went the box of emergency flares, the Kevlar vest, the box of ammunition, and the books I’d grabbed from Saruman’s stores. Admittedly, the books didn’t look particularly useful—one was a science textbook, one was a book of American poetry, and the third was a yellowed library copy of _Gulliver’s Travels_ —but I couldn’t bring myself to leave them in the belly of the helicopter. Nathan’s words came back to me again: _I always carry a good book with me when I leave the house. It’s like having an old friend with you everywhere you go._

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes again. Nathan would be furious with me if he ever found out I lost his book. Or would he just be jealous that I was experiencing his favorite tale first-hand? Would he even _believe_ me, I wondered? Would anyone? I knew instinctively that Caroline and John wouldn’t. Kidnapped by a wizard—they’d think I was crazy. They’d give each other those _looks,_ the ones that conveyed all the dismissive things I always feared they said about me when I wasn’t there, the looks that hurt more than their harshest words. I sighed. My mom certainly wouldn’t believe me, either. And why should she? My mom was all business and logic; there was no room for magic there.

I swallowed as I thought of something else: they _definitely_ wouldn’t believe me at work. What excuse could I possibly give my boss when I made it back? _I’m sorry, sir, but I was in Middle Earth. I would’ve called, see, but the wizard who kidnapped me didn’t have cell service in his tower._ It was already Wednesday—no, Tuesday—I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to control my breathing; this was the second day of work I was missing in a row. Instead of going to work Monday morning, I’d stolen a helicopter and flown across the wilderness of a land that wasn’t supposed to exist.

God, I was so fired. 

With a sharp shake of my head, I tried to stop worrying about it. _Nothing you can do now, at any rate. Focus on getting home first, then come up with a story to tell._

I dug through the electronics I’d stolen and the camping gear strewn about the floor, unsure of what I might need. There was an entire tent, folded into a compact cylinder under the passenger’s seat, but it was so heavy and bulky that I dismissed it outright. A thermal sleeping bag, however, I kept; after shaking the pieces of broken glass off it, I stuffed a flashlight, compass and Swiss Army knife into its folds. There _was_ a canteen, but it was empty; I shook it upside down over my mouth despondently, but there wasn’t a drop of water inside. I also found what looked like a miniature water purifier, which would have been more exciting if there’d been any water to use it on.

Of the electronics I’d stolen, not much looked useful. _I should’ve looked more carefully at what I was taking,_ I reflected, studying a set of fancy-looking walkie talkies, still in their plastic packaging. With a shrug, I stuffed them into the sleeping bag, but left behind the rest.

With the sleeping bag and my violin case slung across my shoulders, I made the awkward climb back out of the helicopter.

I sighed, looking at my strange array of supplies, and put my hands on my hips. It was time to get moving.

But first…I bit my lip. I didn’t know where I was, or how long it would take me to find civilization. The smartest thing to do would be to try to find help by any means necessary, wouldn’t it? I winced, regarding the box of emergency flares for a long moment, then made up my mind.

I was far enough from Saruman by now; he wouldn’t find me here. I was easily two hundred miles from Isengard. Even a wizard couldn’t reach me _that_ far away, right? I nodded uneasily, opening the box of flares.

After skimming the instruction guide—complete with diagrams, thankfully—I removed the plastic black gun from the case and wedged one of the flares inside. For a moment, I clutched the loaded flare gun in my hands, closing my eyes in desperation. _Let someone find me—please—anyone, anyone but Saruman—_

I pointed the flare at the sky and pulled the trigger. A noise like a firework echoed around me, and I flinched as smoke and sparks exploded upward. The reddish ball of fire lingered in the air high above me, the dark smoke trail stark against the cloudy sky even in the bright daylight.

Heart pounding as though I’d just run a marathon, I packed up the flares and gathered my supplies. It took a while, but I managed to arrange the sleeping bag on my back with its long shoulder strap, and I slung my violin case over that, feeling rather like a turtle with a too-large shell. The rest of my supplies I gathered up in my arms, and with a last uneasy look back at the helicopter and the reddish line of smoke fading into the sky above me, I began to walk.

My progress was slow. With every step, my sandals snagged in the tall grass and my supplies grew heavier on my back. Was I even walking in the right direction? Doubts nagged at me, but I continued onward; I hadn’t seen any signs of civilization as I flew yesterday, which meant that my best hope was ahead of me, following the mountain range far to my right.

I’d hoped to find something edible before long: berries or fruit trees or even patches of clover in the grass—but there was nothing. The grass was dry and prickly and uniform, and there were no trees as far as the eye could see. The only other plants were the occasional withered, windblown bushes; even if they’d had berries or nuts among their dark leaves, I wouldn’t have trusted them not to poison me.

It had been well over a day since my last meal, and I could practically feel myself wasting away. I was so hungry I contemplated eating a handful of the dry grass below my feet—but the thought made my throat ache with thirst. Swallowing was getting more and more difficult, and I knew I would need to find water soon. The worst part was when, late in the afternoon, I had to stop and pee; admittedly it felt marginally less awkward than peeing in a bucket, but I was rather alarmed by how little liquid seemed to be left in my body at all. 

I should have known better than to think I could survive off the land like this. I didn’t know what I was doing, and there was nothing out here—nothing at all.

The land was monotonous, quiet and utterly still. No trees, no birds, no wind…The entire landscape felt haunted, somehow, as though it were _mourning_ something. I shook my head sharply—what a strange thing to think. I’d obviously been alone with my thoughts too long.

In the overwhelming silence, I hummed the melodies of songs as I walked, mostly snippets of pieces I’d been learning on the violin. I tapped the beats with my fingers on the box of emergency flares I had wedged under my arm, and wished with all my heart that I was back home with my violin.

My supplies were getting heavier. I had to stop more and more frequently to readjust the bulky packages in my arms and sleeping bag on my back.

The sun was just starting to sink over the horizon when I collapsed onto the grass, exhausted. I’d probably only made it a few miles in the whole day, but I didn’t think I could walk another step. My feet were covered in blisters where my sandals had bitten into my skin, and my muscles ached.

After a moment of deliberation, I set off another emergency flare. This one shone even more visibly in the darkening sky, and I jumped at the way the gunshot sound echoed over the empty hills.

A chilly wind hissed through the grass, and I got the strangest feeling that this place knew I didn’t belong here, that I wasn’t welcome. _How dare you come to this quiet, ghostly place,_ it seemed to say, _and disturb the air with explosions and chemicals and smoke—_

“I’ve definitely been walking too long,” I said out loud. I shook off my uneasiness, and set up camp.

Really, my “camp” was just my sleeping bag laid out next to my pile of supplies, but it would do for the night. I sat cross-legged on my sleeping bag, staring out at the darkening sky and clutching the flashlight to my chest.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable. I’d never slept outdoors before—I didn’t count the previous night, as I’d been out cold long before night fell. I’d never even been camping. When my family traveled, we’d stayed in hotels, and when we’d gone out into the wilderness it was usually part of a guided tour or something. I’d grown up to love the outdoors and the wilderness, but I’d never experienced it like this, not since I was a little girl lost on a family trip, running after chipmunks and making imaginary friends with trees.

Nervously, I burrowed deeper into my sleeping bag, humming to myself again to combat the oppressive silence weighing down on me. I lay stiffly on my back, clutching my violin case to my chest and using the folded Kevlar vest as a pillow.

I watched as heavy clouds rolled in over the mountains to blot out the stars. Before long, the entire sky was enveloped in an unending, sickly gray, and I was encased in utter darkness. I pulled the thermal covers closer around my chin; it was surprisingly chilly for a summer night, and the weight was comforting. It made me feel less exposed to the broad night sky.

Something rustled in the grass near my head, and I jolted upright, biting back a scream. In an instant my flashlight was on and waving back and forth through the grass—

It was a mouse. I huffed sharply under my breath, watching it burrow through the grass a few feet from my sleeping bag. I’d never been afraid of the dark before, but this…I waved my flashlight across the hills cautiously.

I’d never experienced darkness like this.

I stayed upright, flashlight trained on the horizon, until I calmed back down. Stiffly I retreated back under my covers and turned off the flashlight. The darkness was so palpable now that I could practically feel it physically pressing against me. I couldn’t get comfortable. Every time I closed my eyes I flinched involuntarily, seeing flashes of movement flying at my face: fireballs and shards of glass and the swinging blur of a wizard’s staff—shaking, I curled tighter around my violin case and squeezed my eyes shut.

Saruman was far away. He couldn’t hurt me here.

_Besides,_ my traitorous brain supplied, _there are plenty of other things that could hurt you here._ I wondered suddenly if there were any wild animals out here—mountain lions or wolves or some horrible dark creatures unique to Middle Earth…because if wizards were real, and magic was real, then that meant goblins were real too, didn’t it? I flinched more violently than ever, and reached a hand into my violin case to grasp the handle of the pistol I’d stored inside. It did little to comfort me.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I hated this.

I hated Middle Earth.

I missed home so badly that it had become a physical ache in my chest, and I began to sob bitterly into my violin case. I cried and cried until my whole body was shaking uncontrollably and my breath was coming in shuddering hiccups and gasps.

Hopeless and miserable, I eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of food and water and home.

Something was moving toward me. I felt the slightest of vibrations under my makeshift pillow, like footsteps, and heard the faintest of jostling sounds. “Go ‘way,” I mumbled thickly, my tongue feeling heavy and dry in my mouth. The jostling grew louder.

Suddenly a terrible smell flooded my senses, and I felt a hot, snuffling _breath_ on my face. My eyes flew open inches away from a horse’s snout.

I screamed.

The horse shied back, filling the air with the stamping of hooves and the jangling of reins. _“Get back!”_ I screamed blindly, still half asleep. I leapt to my feet, nearly falling over as my legs tangled in the sleeping bag. “ _Stay away from me!”_ My heart thundered painfully in my chest and I rubbed at my eyes blearily, trying to get my bearings.

“Ah, good. You were sleeping so soundly I feared you were dead.”

A stranger was observing me tranquilly from the horse’s saddle, patting his horse’s neck as the animal calmed down. I stared wild-eyed back at him, clutching my violin case to my chest protectively. Obscured as he was by a long, tattered cloak and hat, the rider could have been _anyone_ , anyone at all. Could Saruman have really found me so quickly? Was this one of his servants, a man like Einar, who would take me back to Isengard? I wasn’t going to go back there, I wasn’t, I wasn’t, _I wasn’t—_

“I said _get back!”_ I screamed as the man dismounted his horse. “Don’t come any closer!” Fighting down a cold wave of panic, I dug in my violin case for the stolen pistol and pointed it at him. I wouldn’t— _couldn’t—_ shoot at him, I knew, but maybe I could intimidate him enough to keep him away.

Instead, the stranger ignored the gun entirely, patting his horse’s neck soothingly and leaning to whisper into its twitching ear. After a moment, he ventured forward, blinking owlishly at me, and bent to observe the sleeping bag lying in a heap between us. He touched the thermal fabric experimentally, making a sound of mild disapproval as he straightened up. “What sort of material is this?” he asked curiously, looking from me to the sleeping bag. “It has a strange texture.”

I stared at him. The pistol was still in my shaking hand, pointing at the man’s heart. Suddenly feeling rather stupid, I let my arm fall back to my side. “Um. I don’t know,” I stammered. “Polyester, or something.”

I watched the stranger carefully, confused by his vacant, mumbling voice and odd mannerisms. Whoever he was, he didn’t seem like much of a threat anymore. The man was now holding up the Kevlar vest curiously, lifting his floppy hat to squint at it in the morning light. He was old, I realized with surprise, old and entirely unarmed. What in the world was he _doing_ out here? His thin frame was swallowed up by a truly hideous brown cloak, so ragged and patched that it looked like the remains of a dozen different cloaks sewn together. He didn’t look like a murderer or a servant of Saruman or anything, more like an eccentric homeless man. I let out a slow breath and stowed the pistol back in my violin case.

“What is this?” The man’s crooked nose scrunched in confusion at the bulletproof vest. “It is heavy. Not armor, surely?”

“Uh, yeah,” I muttered in reply, my voice painfully hoarse. “Yeah, it’s kinda like armor, I guess.”

“I suppose it _might_ stop an arrow, if put to the test,” the man muttered. “You come from far away, with possessions such as these,” he added, folding the vest carefully before setting it down. “And you have been through quite an ordeal. Yes, quite an ordeal.”

I stepped back warily as the man studied me, but he didn’t seem bothered by my unease. He stepped forward, observing me like I was a specimen under a microscope. I winced and stumbled back as he approached me, his rather bulgy brown eyes widening. “ _Tree-friend?”_ he muttered incredulously, stroking his beard. I shrunk back as he loomed over me. “Hmm. Strange _—_ ”

“Do you mind?” I said rather shrilly, scrambling to put more distance between myself and this crazy man.

“Eh?” He finally seemed to realize he was making me nervous. “One moment.” Mumbling under his breath, the man turned back to his horse, his ragged brown cloak catching in the tall grass as he went. He grabbed a few things from his saddlebags and walked back toward me, his movements cautious and slow. Wordlessly he set the items in the grass near my sleeping bag and backed away carefully again. Then he smiled at me from under his floppy hat, gesturing at me to move forward.

I was reminded distinctly of an animal trainer at the Dallas Zoo.

_Fine. I’ll play along._ With a sigh, I walked over to the sleeping bag and looked at the items he’d set down for me. “Oh!”

The man had set down a small burlap sack and a strange sort of leather flask. I gasped. _Water?_ Suddenly I was so thirsty I couldn’t even think. I fell upon the flask, drinking and drinking until I was out of breath, my stomach aching and strength returning at last to my sluggish limbs. The water was musty and tasted strongly of leather, but I didn’t care. I felt life flowing back into my veins, and I let out a delirious laugh as I sank down on the rumpled sleeping bag.

When the flask was empty, I turned to the burlap sack the stranger had set down. It was full of some kind of flatbread, each piece wrapped in what looked like thin, pliant sheets of tree bark. I ate one tentatively, then another, marveling at the slight taste of grass and honeysuckle. In my half-starved state, they were easily the most delicious things I’d ever eaten, and I continued eating until I could barely move.

Finally, I looked back up at the man, who was absently watching a rabbit hop through the grass a few yards off.

“Who _are_ you?” I burst out, coughing at the strange sensation of being hydrated and full.

“Eh?” The man blinked, as though he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh. I am Radagast.”

“I’m Beatrice,” I said, walking up and sticking out my hand. The man stared down at it with the same confused expression he’d shown the Kevlar vest. I flushed and dropped my hand back to my side. “Um. Anyway, thank you. For the food and water.” I cleared my throat. “Really, thank you.”

Radagast shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, waving my words away with an impatient hand. I got the sense that he’d been without human interaction for much longer than I had. “It was no trouble,” he muttered.

“Yes it was,” I exclaimed, annoyed that he was so dismissive of having saved my life. “I…I could have starved to death out here. And are you going to be able to find more water? I drank all yours.” Guilt swept over me and I buried my face in my hands. “God, I’m sorry—and there’s hardly any bread left in your bag there either.” I handed the remainder of his supplies back to him uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if—I mean, I shouldn’t’ve had so much…”

“I know the land well. I will be able to find more water and food on my journey home,” he mumbled, patting his horse’s mane as he spoke. Like Einar, he seemed uneasy looking me in the eye.

“Oh, well—good.” I ran a hand down my face, relieved. “Where _is_ your home, then?”

He gestured airily into the distance, still not looking at me. “Across the Misty Mountains. Near the forest of Mirkwood.”

“Can you take me with you?” The words were out of my mouth before I’d even considered them.

“Eh?” Radagast turned to me at last, his eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his floppy hat. “Wh-why would you want to accompany me, girl? My home is several weeks away by horseback. Not an easy journey.”

“Oh. Well…” I tugged at my tangled hair uncertainly. “It’s just…I mean, I don’t know where I am—I don’t have anywhere to go, and I need to find my way home, _somehow_ …” I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control the desperation in my voice. “Please, I can’t just keep wandering around out here, you saw how I was doing on my own, I’d have started to death if you hadn’t—”

“Hmm! Well, you cannot stay out here alone,” the man interrupted, as though the idea had just occurred to him. “You must get somewhere safe.”

“That’s what I was—” I put my head in my hands and sighed. “Yeah. Yes, I agree. So can’t I come with you?”

“My home is likely not safe at all.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Radagast shook his head, the brim of his hat flopping back and forth. “There are few safe places this far into the Wild. No homely houses here, but one.”

I blinked as I registered what he said. “There…there _is_ one?” I stammered eagerly. “Where is it?” 

“Several days’ ride to the north.”

“Several days’ ride?” I repeated. Maybe I could make it, if he helped me collect more food first…but on foot, that would be at least a week, maybe two—

“Yes, it is not far out of my way,” the man continued slowly. He scratched at his beard for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. “Yes, very well. I will take you there.”

“You…you _will?”_ I exclaimed. “I—I don’t know what to say—thank you, oh my God, thank you so much, you have _no_ idea what this means to me, Rasputin—”

“Radagast.”

“Right, right, sorry.” I bounced on the balls of my feet, suddenly too giddy to focus. “Well—oh my gosh, thank you—wow—just let me get my things, then!” I laughed breathlessly, stunned by my good fortune. I was saved, I was saved! I was going to find somewhere safe, I was going to find my way home!

I gathered up my scattered supplies from the grass and rolled up my sleeping bag as Radagast stared up vacantly into the sky. I paused in my packing to follow his eyes, where a flock of birds was flying past. Darting to and fro, their black wings and screaming voices cut through the air sharply and made my skin prickle. “Radagast?” I said hesitantly. “Is everything alright?”

He jumped when I addressed him. “Yes, yes. It is probably nothing.” But the man sent me a sharp look from under his wild eyebrows. “I wonder if sending your fireworks into the sky was a good idea,” he added after a moment, watching the flock of birds circle overhead and disappear into the distance to the south.

“You saw my emergency flares?” I asked, smiling rather proudly. “Then they worked, after all!” 

“Yes,” the man said slowly, a spacey look back in his eyes. He shook himself after a moment, as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Let us move on. The sooner the better.” Still looking rather flustered, he helped me arrange some of my things into his saddlebags.

“Thank you,” I repeated earnestly, still overwhelmed by his kindness. “Look, I’ll pay you back, for helping me. I don’t know how—I’ll find a job, somehow, when we get to…where are we going exactly?”

“Rivendell,” Radagast said. “The Last Homely House.”

“Rivendell,” I said slowly. The name was familiar; I closed my eyes as I tried to think. It was in the movie, wasn’t it? And it was from _The Hobbit!_ “There are _elves_ in Rivendell, aren’t there?” I asked. “It’s like a…a valley, isn’t it? With trees and waterfalls and music?” 

“Yes, you’ve summarized it well,” Radagast said distractedly, adjusting the horse’s saddle. For such an ancient, rail-thin man, he leapt onto the horse’s back with surprising grace. I slung my sleeping bag and violin case onto my shoulders and, after some awkward stumbling and cursing, managed to clamber onto the horse behind him.

“Hold onto my shoulders,” Radagast said. “Poppy doesn’t seem to like you much.”

I winced as his horse tossed its head violently, as though agreeing with him. Awkwardly I reached up and held onto the fraying cloak, and with a jostle of the reins we were off.


	10. Uh...Howdy

“So,” I said awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. “You said your home was near Milkwood?”

Radagast jumped slightly, as though he’d forgotten I was sitting behind him. “Mirkwood,” he corrected, without turning to look back at me.

“Right, right.” I adjusted my grip on his cloak, tapping my fingers idly on the rough fabric. “So, uh, what’s it like there?”

“Hmm.” My traveling companion contemplated this for a while. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to have a proper conversation, and it was beginning to grate on my nerves; I had to stop myself from tugging on his cloak like an impatient toddler. “Mirkwood…” he said after a minute or two, “is not what it once was.”

“In what way?” I pressed.

“Hmm.” Radagast shrugged. I waited for him to respond, but he just gave a noncommittal grunt and fell silent. I stifled a groan.

“Ah!” he exclaimed after a moment, and I looked up eagerly, wondering if he was finally going to talk to me. Instead, he reached out a hand and whistled lightly.

“What-?” I began, but Radagast shushed me and whistled again. I stared at him in confusion for a moment, then bit back a gasp as a bird landed on the man’s outstretched finger.

“Hello, my friend,” he said softly, keeping his hand extremely still despite the jostling of Poppy’s hooves. Radagast leaned forward and whispered something to the bird. It was just an ordinary sparrow—at least I thought it was—but it was bobbing its head up and down as though it was actually _listening_ to Radagast’s words.

“What are you d-?”

“ _Shh!”_ he breathed, leaning closer as the bird chirped something back to him. “Ah! Is that so?” Radagast murmured. “These are dark tidings, indeed.” The bird bobbed its head and whistled.

“Are you really _talking_ to it?” I said loudly, and with a startled flutter of wings the bird was gone. Radagast turned and glared at me. I winced.

“I was _attempting_ to, yes,” he said, his tone not quite so mild as before.

“What are you, Snow White?” I exclaimed. “You can’t just talk to animals. Can you?”

Radagast flicked the reins idly, facing forward again. “That is untrue. Anyone can talk to animals,” he said sagely.

I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t pop out of my head. “Okay, fine, anyone can _talk_ to them,” I said exasperatedly. “But how did it talk _back?_ And how did you know what it was saying, how did it understand you? And the way it just landed on your finger like that…” I gestured wildly into the air, lost for words. “Can everyone do that here? I mean, is that normal, in Middle Earth?”

“I do not believe so,” he said, then scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “You do not hail from Middle Earth.”

“Well, no,” I said hesitantly.

“Hmm. I thought not.” Radagast sounded entirely unconcerned; he could have been talking about the weather. I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation—but he simply shrugged, flicked the reins, and continued on.

Not much time had passed before another sparrow flitted over and lighted on Poppy’s mane. The horse flicked her ears in annoyance, but allowed the bird to perch there as Radagast whispered to it. Next came a cardinal, its red feathers standing out starkly as it rested on the man’s brown-cloaked shoulder, chirping into his ear.

“What are they _saying?_ ” I exclaimed at last, unable to take it anymore. Radagast looked up as the dragonfly he had been mumbling to flitted away.

“They are answering my questions,” he said after a while.

“And what are you _asking_ them, then?” I demanded.

Radagast shrugged airily, his hat flopping over his eyes. “Questions.”

I covered my face in my hands to stop myself from screaming.

We stopped only a few times throughout the day. Radagast had been right when he’d said he knew how to find more food and water in the wilderness. He dismounted here and there, seemingly at random, to pluck handfuls of berries from bushes or dig up small white roots from unassuming tufts of weeds. He even found drinking water, from hidden ponds and springs tucked away in the hilltops, which were gradually growing greener, with the occasional withered tree twisting out of the grass and rock.

I followed Radagast’s lead as he awkwardly pointed out which plants were safe to eat from and how to find the ripest berries to eat. It was actually kind of pleasant, having someone to talk to and learn from as I traveled; at the very least, it was better than my lonely, miserable wandering the day before.

As we gathered a rather meager dinner, I paused in our foraging, my arms full of dandelions and a lumpy root Radagast had called _burdock_ , to find the man crouched low in the grass, talking to a field mouse, which had reared up on its tiny hind legs and was squeaking intently at him. Radagast nodded sagely, whispering urgently back and shooting a glance in my direction. I scowled, feeling oddly left out. I wondered if they were talking about me. I fretted for a moment, biting my lip self-consciously, before coming to my senses. _It’s a mouse, for Pete’s sake. Get it together._

Radagast patted the creature on the head fondly before straightening up as though nothing odd had happened. There was nothing to do but roll my eyes and keep gathering food; I knew that if he was willing to tell me what these animals were saying to him, he’d tell me on his own time.

The sun was setting over the western plains when we came upon a rare grove of trees in a valley between two steep hills. “We shall rest here for the night,” Radagast told me as Poppy came to a halt. By now I’d noticed that his horse seemed to respond to Radagast’s vaguest of intentions, rather than commands made with reins and stirrups.

I dismounted clumsily, half-falling off Poppy’s back as my sore muscles screamed in protest. Dragging myself to my feet, I looked around at the stunted, windblown trees. “Should we make a fire?” I asked hopefully, dropping the contents of my sleeping bag and violin case into a pile onto the grass.

“Oh, no, no,” Radagast exclaimed, wringing his hands and looking around. “That is not a good idea.”

My spirits sank. A cold wind was already biting through my flimsy, tattered blouse, and I knew it would only get colder as night fell. “Come on, I’m freezing,” I whined, but Radagast waved a hand dismissively.

“Come now, it is a warm summer evening. Besides,” he said, patting Poppy’s neck reassuringly as he removed her saddle, “I wish for us to remain unseen this night.”

I scowled. “Why are you worried, anyway? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Who would see us?”

Radagast removed Poppy’s harness and saddlebags slowly, taking his time. Poppy wandered off as the man began unpacking his bags, and I twitched impatiently as he fussily arranged his belongings in neat little rows in the grass. Without looking up, he shrugged and spoke at last. “The White Wizard would see us, of course. He is looking for you.”

“ _What?”_

“Hmm. The White Wizard has many eyes throughout these lands.” He glanced from side to side into the dark undergrowth, and I shivered, suddenly wondering if we were being watched.

“How do you know he’s looking for me?” I said, my voice an octave higher than normal. I glared at him. “Don’t tell me the sparrows and rabbits told you that.” Radagast shrugged again, and I groaned, pressing my face into my hands. “I shouldn’t have set off those emergency flares! I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

“I cannot say,” Radagast said calmly, now spreading out his bedroll in the grass. He smoothed the ragged blanket out painstakingly, seemingly unaware of my panic. “I am almost certain that your fireworks yesterday alerted the White Wizard, as they alerted me,” he added after awhile. “Nothing else in Middle Earth could resemble those remarkable flares. Even Gandalf’s fireworks are nothing like them.”

“Wait, _you_ know Gandalf?” I said, my voice still shaky.

“Yes.”

A ridiculous thought flitted through my mind. I narrowed my eyes at him. “And you know Saruman too?” I ventured.

“Of course,” Radagast said. “He is one of my Order.”

“Your order?” I repeated, my suspicions growing stronger. “What order?” He didn’t answer; his buggy eyes were scanning the trees airily, as though he’d nearly forgotten I was there again. I frowned. “Are you a wizard?” I said hesitantly.

“Hmm?” He jumped slightly, turning to blink at me with owlish eyes. “Yes, yes, of course. I am Radagast the Brown.”

A cold, horrified feeling was seeping through my limbs. “Oh.” I couldn’t believe I’d been right. I took a step back. “And are you…are you more like Gandalf? Or Saruman?”

Radagast the Brown didn’t answer. Instead he was staring distractedly into the darkness again, his expression rather vacant. I followed his gaze, which was focused on a firefly hovering over the grass. The insect let out a yellow flicker of light, bright in the dim evening air. With a delicate motion, the wizard plucked the firefly out of the grass with a thin, weathered hand and smiled gently, whispering to it under his breath. I watched him for a long moment, studying the tender expression on his face, and fought a sudden urge to laugh.

“You’re nothing like Saruman, are you?” Sighing heavily, I unrolled my sleeping bag and sat down next to the wizard. I felt ridiculous for even thinking it. As strange as he was, Radagast the Brown had to be the least threatening person I’d ever encountered.

“I had hoped you would tell me of your dealings with Saruman unprompted,” the wizard said after a while. The firefly on his palm flickered again, and flitted away into the darkness. “The White Wizard does not often show interest in mortal Men, or indeed anyone, of late. Tell me, what was his interest in you?”

Suddenly nervous, I hugged my knees to my chest. It was cold out, whatever Radagast said. “You already guessed that I wasn’t from Middle Earth,” I said. “That’s because Saruman brought me here. From a city called Dallas, in another world.” I hesitated, unsure of how to explain.

Radagast nodded. “Go on,” he encouraged, still looking intently into the night sky. I took a deep breath to reassure myself, and continued.

Telling my story grew easier with each word; it was cathartic, somehow, to confide in someone else, and Radagast’s placid smiles and vacant nods of encouragement were very calming. “Did you already know what Saruman was doing?” I asked. The wizard hadn’t seemed particularly surprised by my story.

“No, not exactly,” the wizard admitted after a while, looking decades older than before, his face thin and ragged in the near-total darkness. “I was in Isengard not three months ago, at Saruman’s bidding. I saw what was collected in the White Wizard’s storerooms; I saw the fervor in his eyes. I smelled the metal, the smoke, the fires burning in the pits below Isengard. Yet I had believed—I had hoped…ah, but it is useless now. The Nine have ridden from Minas Morgul, the head of my Order has betrayed us, and now we must contend with your weapons on top of everything else.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice was small, and I hugged my knees to my chest. _They’re not_ my _weapons,_ I wanted to protest, but I still felt responsible. If I hadn’t told Saruman anything…if I’d hidden the book better, or destroyed it…if I had stayed in Isengard, and perhaps tried to destroy his collection of weaponry…but Radagast was right. It was useless now.

We sat in silence for a long time. The sky grew inky black, and I kept thinking that I could see the glint of black eyes, or that I could hear the heavy thud of footsteps followed by the swish of a long cloak. I twitched helplessly on my sleeping bag, wanting to get out my flashlight but afraid of attracting attention, as Radagast had warned. He was staring unblinkingly into the shadows of the trees. Saruman’s betrayal must not have been easy for him to take. “You must inform the Lord Elrond of Saruman’s treachery,” Radagast said at last. “As well as Gandalf’s imprisonment.”

I nodded, eager to do something that might help. “Do you think he’ll be able to do anything? Would…uh, Lord Enron be able to help Gandalf? Or is there…I mean, is there anything _you_ can do for him?”

“Lord _Elrond,_ ” he corrected placidly. “And I do not know. Perhaps.”

I waited for the wizard to continue, but he didn’t. I sighed, curling up in my sleeping bag and looking up at the night sky. There were so many stars here; the light pollution of Dallas was worlds away. I’d learned the constellations as a little kid, in my outdoorsy hiking phase, but looking up at the sky now, I didn’t recognize any. The black sky spread endlessly above us, and I wondered how it could be so oppressively dark even with so many stars shining. Tears welled up in my eyes again, and I pressed my fists into my eyes in exasperation, not wanting Radagast to see me cry.

I glanced over at the wizard surreptitiously. His shadowy profile hadn’t moved an inch; he may as well have been turned to stone. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep sitting up, or if wizards even needed to sleep. Maybe he was just staring intently into the horizon like I had been, staring as though trying to pierce through the trees and hills to see something far out of reach. I sighed and rolled over, curling my knees up to my chest. The smell of grass and wet earth filled my nose, and the heavy, plasticky fabric of my Kevlar vest pillow dug into my face. It took a long time for me to fall asleep.

I was woken up by Poppy’s snuffling breath on my face again. I sat up and rubbed at my face quickly to hide the wetness on my cheeks.

“Mornin’, Radagast, I muttered. “Mornin’, Poppy.” Radagast didn’t answer, preoccupied as he was with talking to a mouse that was running up and down his tattered sleeve. 

I rubbed at my face again to wake myself up, and tried to comb some of the tangles out of my greasy hair with my fingers, more self-conscious of how gross I was now that I was traveling with someone. The wizard wouldn’t notice or care, of course, but I was still uncomfortable.

We had a meager breakfast of leftover berries and roots. My stomach rumbled painfully, and I tried to ignore it; this was better than nothing, after all. “Let us move on,” Radagast said briskly. “Time is of the essence; Lord Elrond should be informed of your news at the nearest opportunity.” I nodded wearily, packing up my things and clambering up onto Poppy’s back.

The day passed in a dull, if companionable, silence. Poppy carried us at a faster pace than before, though we still covered an infuriatingly short distance by nightfall. I was restless; I’d never traveled this slowly in my life, accustomed as I was to driving eighty miles an hour on the interstate.

The next day was much the same. Radagast and I didn’t talk all that often, but he seemed to grow more comfortable answering my questions when I asked them, and no longer jumped in the saddle or got flustered when I addressed him. We had settled into a kind of awkward routine; if Radagast vastly preferred to travel alone, at least he didn’t show it often, and if I still cried myself to sleep at night, I managed to hide it well enough from him.

On the fourth morning after setting out with Radagast, the wizard turned in the saddle and offered me a rare smile, his eyes crinkling merrily under the floppy brim of his hat. “The Last Homely House is just beyond those hills,” he said, pointing over Poppy’s head in the distance. “We will reach Rivendell by midday.”

“Really?” I gasped. I craned my neck to try and see over the wizard’s bony shoulders, but I didn’t see anything. The land had grown greener and rockier as we’d traveled, with wide patches of leafy trees, small cliffs and steep valleys cutting abruptly into the hills. Still, I didn’t see any signs of elves or homely houses.

“In fact,” Radagast added after a moment, “one of Lord Elrond’s patrols rides out to meet us even now.”

I couldn’t see anyone approaching, but I nodded, trusting my traveling companion’s intuition. We continued riding in silence, though I kept shifting excitedly in the saddle, unable to sit still. The morning slipped by, maddeningly slowly. Then—

“Radagast the Brown!” cried a sudden voice.

_“Gah!”_ I jumped forward so violently that my forehead collided with the wizard’s bony shoulderblades. A horse and rider were approaching us, moving so quietly and swiftly that the stranger was level with us in seconds, his gray horse falling into step alongside Poppy before I even knew what was happening.

“Back so soon, my friend? I didn’t know you had missed us so much!” The rider laughed, making me jump again. His voice was clear, deep and musical, his laugh washing over me like a bucket of ice water. I stared at him, slack-jawed, as our horses trotted along in tandem. _An elf, oh my gosh, he’s an elf!_ Long sunlight-colored hair flowed like water down his back, his face framed by slender, pointed ears. I couldn’t believe how _inhuman_ he was; the actors from the _Lord of the Rings_ movie seemed ridiculous in comparison—he was regal and fey and entirely unearthly, and those _eyes—_

Radagast pinched the bridge of his long nose. “Hello again, Lanion.” Poppy came to a halt, as did the elf’s horse. I heard the wizard sigh heavily.

“When you last passed through these hills you scarcely had time to say hello!” the elf exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in mock offense. “And now you have returned to us, not two weeks later.”

“Well, hmm, yes. A rather _unexpected_ situation has called me back to Rivendell,” the wizard replied, gesturing mildly to me. Lanion turned to look at me, and I froze under his gaze.

“Oh—uh, howdy,” I croaked, giving the elf a stupid little wave. _Did I really just say howdy, oh my_ God, _Bee, what is your problem—_

“Hello, miss.” Lanion extended his hand to me, looking curious.

“Hi,” I said stupidly, and felt myself flush as I realized I’d greeted him twice. Forcing my eyes back into my head, I grabbed his proffered hand and shook it heartily. The elf, who I realized too late had been moving to kiss the back of my hand, not shake it, looked quite taken aback. “Oh. Uh, sorry. I…I’m Bee,” I muttered, clearing my throat. “Smith. Um, Beatrice Smith, I mean.” I wished quite desperately that the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

“So you are the unexpected ‘situation’ that brings dear old Radagast the Brown back to us,” Lanion said, looking rather confused by my behavior but mercifully ignoring my embarrassment. “Where did the wizard find you?” he asked. “Radagast has been known to have odd traveling companions, but they most often have four legs and a tail.” He flashed the wizard a mocking, dazzling grin and I felt rather faint.

“I—” I cleared my throat again, finding it impossible to look the elf in the eyes. “I need to speak to Lord Elrond,” I managed. “It’s really important.”

Lanion glanced quizzically at Radagast, who nodded in confirmation of my words. “Very well, then. I am certain you have quite the story to tell.”

As Radagast and I dismounted Poppy—thankfully I managed to do it without falling into the grass—the wizard and elf continued to talk, this time slipping into another language. _Elvish,_ I realized, my excitement outweighing my embarrassment as I tried to listen in. The language was achingly beautiful; I’d never known spoken words could sound like this. I was overcome by the desire to hear Lanion sing; what must elvish music sound like, the melodies and lyrics and instruments—

“Beatrice?” Radagast interrupted my thoughts, motioning for me to gather my supplies from his saddlebags. I jumped, realizing that I’d been staring vacantly at Lanion like a lovesick puppy.

“Sorry,” I muttered, feeling heat creep into my face.

“You’ve not seen an elf before,” Radagast said as I grabbed my things from Poppy’s bags.

I winced, knowing that if even spacey, bumbling Radagast had seen my awkwardness around Lanion, there was no way the elf hadn’t noticed too. “There aren’t any elves where I’m from,” I stammered. “They don’t exist back home. I didn’t know they’d be so…” I gestured helplessly into the air.

“That they are,” Radagast rolled his eyes as he fussily rearranged his supplies in the saddlebags.

“Are you ready, Miss Smith?” Lanion asked, transferring some of my bulkier items onto his horse.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Yeah. Just a sec.” Suddenly feeling reluctant, I turned back to Radagast. “So you’re leaving?”

The wizard nodded. “You are in safe hands with Lanion. Now, I must return to my home with all haste. Tell Lord Elrond of everything that has transpired since you arrived here. It is imperative that he knows of Saruman’s treachery. You may trust him.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just…I don’t know how to thank you for helping me.”

Radagast looked startled. “Oh, there is no need—”

“Yes there is!” I insisted. “You saved my life, and I meant it when I said I’d pay you back. I’ll find some way to make it up to you.” Before I could think about my words, I added: “I’ll see you again to pay you back before I return to Texas, okay? I promise.”

“My dear, there is no debt,” Radagast insisted, looking uncomfortable. His hands twitched as he picked at a loose thread on his cloak. “Do not trouble yourself—”

I hugged the wizard tightly, cutting off his stammering. “I’ll miss you, Radagast the Brown,” I said, my voice muffled by his ratty old cloak.

Radagast patted my head awkwardly, as though I were one of the rabbits he’d spoken to in the wilderness, and hastily freed himself. I gave a sniffling laugh. “Away with you, now.” He shooed me in Lanion’s direction. “Hurry off.” 

“Bye, then,” I managed. “Oh! And tell Poppy goodbye, too!”

I was so preoccupied with my farewells that I forgot to be embarrassed when Lanion took my hand and helped me onto the back of his horse. Before I knew it the elf and I were cantering away. I twisted in the saddle to see Radagast mounting his horse; he looked oddly somber as we rode away, a solitary figure swallowed up by a windswept brown cloak. 

“Radagast is quite the character, isn’t he?” the elf said after a while. I nodded hesitantly, my shyness returning in full force as I awkwardly adjusted my grip on Lanion’s torso. My face was burning. I hadn’t showered in goodness knew how many days, I was sweaty and dirty and bruised, and I was pretty sure there were pieces of grass in my hair—and now I was awkwardly pressed up against the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. This had to be a nightmare, it _had_ to be— _just kill me now, honestly_ — “What I am most curious about, however,” the elf added, “is the mortal woman who convinced him to travel with her.”

“Convinced?” I mumbled. “I didn’t convince him to do anything. He _offered_ to take me to Rivendell.”

“Of course,” Lanion said, though he sounded skeptical. “Yet all the same, I have never known Radagast the Brown to take on such a traveling companion.”

We rode in silence—an uncomfortable silence, at least on my part. I greatly preferred traveling with Radagast, even with his strange quirks and mannerisms. I felt starstruck around Lanion; he was just so _unnatural_. Even his horse was just a little too graceful, a little too silent, and it seemed to respond to the elf’s wishes even more innately than Poppy had to Radagast’s commands. 

Relief washed over me when we finally came to a rugged little path that wound down the side of a hill, descending into a wooded valley.

“Welcome to Rivendell,” Lanion said, turning in the saddle to smile back at me. My breath hitched—seeing the elf’s smile was like staring into the sun—but then I looked ahead and I wasn’t sure my lungs would ever work properly again.

Rivendell was beautiful. Achingly beautiful. Like the elves themselves, the movie didn’t do it justice in the slightest. Lanion’s horse carried us down into the broad valley, and I felt myself overwhelmed with what I could only describe as _magic._ The air itself smelled sweet and clean and renewing, and the sunlight beamed down across the treetops below us in a brighter shade of gold than I’d ever seen. Judging by the faraway sound of rushing water, a river was flowing through the valley, too, mingling with birdsong and the wind in the grass and, just on the edge of hearing, the sound of voices. They were _elves’_ voices, they had to be—and they were singing. I leaned desperately over Lanion’s shoulder, all embarrassment forgotten, as I strained to hear more, but nothing sounded familiar. The instruments—they were far away still, but I didn’t think they sounded like violins. At least, not like violins I was used to. Harps I recognized, and voices singing in the same ethereal language Lanion and Radagast had spoken in earlier today; one of the voices burst into laughter and my heart skipped a beat. This was too much; I didn’t have enough eyes and ears to take it all in.

“Miss Smith.”

I jumped. “What?”

Lanion didn’t turn around, but I could tell he was rolling his eyes. “I _said,_ Miss, that you must wish for a bath, and perhaps a meal, before being granted an audience with Lord Elrond. Am I not mistaken?”

“Oh, right,” I stammered. “I mean…I don’t want to impose,” I added uncomfortably. I had forgotten all about Elrond. I hadn’t even realized that Lanion’s horse had already led us across a beautiful stone bridge at the bottom of the valley, and we were now in some kind of beautiful courtyard, filled with gardens, fountains, and delicate archways.

“Come now, it will not take long. A maidservant will gladly see to a bath and a hot meal for you.” Lanion turned and helped me dismount; despite his grace I still managed to catch my sandal in the stirrups and nearly elbowed him in the face as I stumbled down from the horse. He, gracefully, chose not to comment on this new embarrassment. “Well, Miss Smith?”

I looked around, face burning, still in shock at where I was. Honestly, a bath sounded more amazing than anything else in the world, and I hadn’t had a hot meal in ages. I couldn’t even imagine how comfortable the rooms here would be, and how nice it might be to sleep on something other than a stolen sleeping bag or a filthy straw bed in a prison cell in Isengard.

_Isengard…_ “No, no, I need to speak to Elrond!” I said frantically, images coming to my mind unbidden of Gandalf trapped on the roof of Orthanc, of Saruman’s collection of weaponry, the fiery shape of that _eye_ in his crystal ball thing— “It can’t wait, it just _can’t._ Please, you have to take me to him now— _”_

“Are you certain, Miss?” Lanion raised an eyebrow at me.

“Yes, _yes!”_ I nearly screamed, pulling helplessly at the roots of my tangled hair. “I know I’m all gross and whatnot, I don’t give a crap! _When can I see Elrond?”_

“Right now, as a matter of fact,” a voice said from behind me.

I froze, feeling the blood rush to my face. _Of course_ _._ Of _course_ this would happen. "Lord Elrond!" Lanion exclaimed. He bowed slightly to the elf approaching us, who nodded his head in return. I wondered if I should bow too, or curtsey or something, but the moment seemed to have passed as I stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. Lanion launched into rapid-fire Elvish, perhaps hoping to prevent me from speaking and embarrassing myself further. I caught the name Radagast several times, but nothing else.

"That will do, Lanion," Elrond said after a moment, nodding sagely. "Tend to your horse, and to our guest's belongings. I need you patrolling our eastern borders again before nightfall."

"Of course, my lord," Lanion bowed again, and turned to me. "Well met, then, Miss Smith. I hope to learn more of your story upon our next meeting." He gave me another dazzling smile. Unable to find my voice, I gave him a pathetic little wave as he led his horse away.

"Now," Elrond said. "I understand that you need to speak with me?"

"I...yes, sir," I stammered. "I mean, if that's alright. I didn't mean to-"

Elrond raised an eyebrow slightly, but I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused. "My dear, I distinctly heard you say that you do not give a...well, it matters not. Come with me to my library, and we shall speak."

I nodded, my face burning, and allowed myself to be led through the courtyard by the Lord of Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and commented on this story! I'll post the next chapter in a week or so. 
> 
> Also, no, Lanion isn't Bee's love interest. I'll add it to the tags once the story is a bit more underway, because apparently I'm a sucker for suspense. But place your bets now- who's it gonna be?


	11. I'm New in Town, and It Gets Worse

I followed Elrond in a bit of a daze, struggling to keep up with his swift pace while trying to look at everything around me all at once. We walked down a meandering hall lined with white stone, broad windows opening onto tree-lined paths and courtyards. As before, the sounds of rushing water and far-off music echoed faintly all around, and my head spun as I tried to take it all in.

I wondered, briefly, if I was dreaming.

Here and there other elves walked by, or sat and talked to one another, their laughter bouncing merrily through the gardens and halls. I stared in fascination at them, my jaw open slightly—I couldn’t help it, they were just so inhuman. But when they turned to stare curiously back at me, I looked away nervously, unable to quite meet their eyes. Like Elrond, they were all dressed in flowing robes, with high cheekbones, flawless skin, and model-like hair. I winced and fiddled with my own hair in embarrassment as we walked—only to find a piece of grass stuck in the greasy tangles around my shoulders. I ducked my head and willed Elrond to walk faster.

"Lanion said that your name was Smith," the elf said kindly, finally opening a tall wooden door at the end of the hall and beckoning me inside.

"Uh, yes sir. I’m Beatrice Smith,” I replied hesitantly, glancing around curiously as I walked inside. This wasn’t at all what I’d expected from an elvish library. It was cluttered, cramped, and far less airy than anything I’d seen of Rivendell so far, but I liked it immediately. Leather-bound books were stacked perilously along the walls, and scrolls dotted with thick wax seals overflowed from the drawers of several wooden writing desks. Sunlight streamed in, heavy and gold, through a row of windows lining the low ceiling, and the whole room smelled pleasantly of paper and dust.

"So then—Beatrice Smith,” Elrond repeated, sitting down behind a desk and motioning for me to take a seat opposite him. “That is a rather unusual name.”

"Oh, um, it’s nothing out of the ordinary where I’m from,” I assured him, perching awkwardly on the edge of a chair.

“And where _are_ you from, Miss Smith?”

I hesitated, fiddling with my tangled hair again. “Um…well…how much did Lanion tell you?”

“A few details,” Elrond replied vaguely, “though I would rather hear your own account of the tale. What, then, was this news that could not wait?”

I felt myself flush, embarrassed at his mention of my panicked outburst at Lanion in the courtyard earlier. “Right, well…” I started, then broke off. “You’re not going to believe me,” I warned him.

“I believe I can judge for myself the veracity of your words, Miss Smith. Go on.”

I nodded, took another deep breath, and began to tell him everything. Talking to Elrond was a lot more difficult than talking to Radagast. As I stammered out my story, I found myself barely able to even look Elrond in the eyes. His stern gaze was unsettling; it was so oddly inhuman, young and old all at once, both attractive and intimidating. I didn’t remember the actor in the movie being this hot— _why does he have to be hot? It’s Lanion all over again, damn it._

Like Radagast, Elrond let me tell my story uninterrupted. His face, however, was far more expressive than the spacey wizard's had been, and his eyebrows arched higher and higher toward his hairline each time I dared a glance at him, incredulity clear on his face. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, it apparently hadn't involved other worlds and helicopters. I couldn't exactly blame him.

Finally, I finished explaining my meeting with Radagast and running into Lanion. "And now I don't know what to do," I finished in a rush, "because Gandalf is probably still trapped in Isengard, and I have no idea how to get home, and Saruman is probably reading about the future of Middle Earth right now, and if he figures out how to use all the weapons he's stolen, then—"

"Yes, I believe I understand you," Elrond said, holding up a hand to stop my rambling. He studied me for a long moment with a new expression, the fatherly sort of kindness replaced by something chilly. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, dropping my gaze to the ground. I couldn't help but wonder, as I had done with Gandalf, how I must appear to someone like Elrond. Probably like a homeless person, or a basket case, considering the state of my clothes and hair, and the bruises and dirt on my face, not to mention my wild, rambling words. "That is quite a story, Miss Smith,” the elf said at last.

I winced.

"You were correct that I would have… _difficulty_ believing your tale,” he continued. His voice was mild, but his words were cold, and seemed to hold a warning. “Saruman the White has been an ally of Imladris for ages uncounted; to suggest that he has betrayed us—betrayed one of his own Order—is a serious accusation indeed.”

“I know it is,” I said urgently. “But it’s true. I _promise._ Please, if you don’t believe me, something terrible might happen to Gandalf, and Saruman might—”

“Calm yourself, Miss,” Elrond said mildly, holding up a hand again.

I shook my head desperately. _“You have to believe me,”_ I exclaimed. “I don’t know if Gandalf believed me, when I tried to warn him, but Radagast did—he can tell you, if you reach out to him again—”

“Your second claim is even more absurd,” Elrond spoke over me evenly. “You say that Saruman has been gathering weapons from your homeland over the course of many years, through his possession of one of the palantíri.” I nodded emphatically, though the elf continued before I could speak. “How many of these weapons has he gathered, and what exactly is their nature?” he asked. “How many soldiers could be armed with these tools? And is it likely that he might create more weapons of a similar capacity in Isengard’s forges?”

“Does this mean you believe me?”

“Answer the questions, if you please, Miss Smith.”

Unsettled by the icy calm in his voice, I launched into a hasty description of everything I knew about Saruman’s guns, grenades, pipe bombs, and drones, thinking back to every weapon and machine stockpiled in those horrible storerooms. I tried to force down the discomfort that came with the memories of that place, but it didn’t work; my stomach twisted, and my blood felt cold. _Please believe me, please,_ I thought feverishly, biting the inside of my cheek as I spoke to Elrond, who had methodically unfurled a blank scroll of parchment and begun to make notes of my descriptions. A moment of unbearable silence followed my words, in which Elrond’s quill continued to scratch elegantly against the parchment. I craned my neck slightly to peer at his words, but they were in a strange, flowing alphabet I didn’t recognize.

“Your third claim,” Elrond said finally, settling down his quill with a small flourish, “is the most outlandish of all. You say that all of our history, the entirety of Middle Earth, is written down in _books_ in your homeland. Who, then, was the author of these texts, that he came to know of our world? An elf? A wizard?"

"Um, his name was Tolkien," I said hesitantly. "He was a professor, I think. He wasn't a wizard or anything—he was human. The stories he wrote were fiction," I explained. " Made up, you know, for entertainment. Everybody where I'm from thinks Middle Earth doesn't exist, and the story with Gandalf and the hobbits and the Ring is just fantasy."

"The Ring?" Elrond repeated sharply. I clapped a hand over my mouth. “You have read this story," he said, his tone unreadable, and I winced, looking back down at my knees. “You have read the future of Middle Earth. It is written in a book from another land, penned by a _professor,_ for _entertainment_.” His voice was flat, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, and was hoping I would correct him. 

"I’ve, uh, read a bit of the story," I admitted, deciding to leave the concept of _movies_ for another day; as far as Elrond needed to know, seeing a bit of the movie was the same as reading a bit of the book. “I don't remember much, though. Honest. And I never got to the end. Believe me, if I'd known it was real, I'd have paid more attention," I said, giving a humorless smile that Elrond did not return.

“Indeed," he said slowly. He was still studying me, as though trying to put together the pieces of a particularly troublesome puzzle. "Did you mention the Ring to Saruman?”

“No, of course not!” I exclaimed. “I’m not stupid.”

Elrond sighed and nodded, then sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested his forehead against his hands. A long moment passed. The comforting, cozy nature of the room had become stifling, and I fidgeted in my seat. Finally, Elrond met my eyes again. “I believe you, Miss Smith.”

I jumped up in my chair. “You do?”

“You will forgive my harshness, I hope. You have been honest with me from the beginning, yet I confess I did not wish to believe your words.”

“It’s okay,” I told him, smiling hesitantly. “I didn’t want to believe any of it either.”

Elrond’s eyes turned to one of the low windows, where a sliver of dusty blue sky was visible between the trees. He sighed again. “This news bodes ill for many, Miss. Our list of allies has grown thin. Yes, your story is outlandish, but it seems that I must trust you. After all, your story is corroborated by Lanion’s words, which themselves come from Radagast the Brown. Eccentric the wizard may be, but I would be a fool to ignore Radagast’s wisdom, or to have reservations about those in whom he has placed his trust. The friendship of an Istari is not earned without reason. Would that we could trust all wizards thus,” he added darkly. “And to think that all of this occurred under the very noses of the White Council…”

I didn’t know what the White Council was, or what Istari meant, but I nodded. "So then," I said hesitantly. "What are we going to do?"

“We?” Elrond repeated, looking surprised.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “How are we going to save Gandalf, and stop Saruman from reading that book and using his weapons? We need to do something now; the more time we spend sitting here, the likelier it is that Saruman will have-”

" _We_ are not going to do anything, Miss Smith," Elrond said, raising a hand for silence once again. "Forgive me, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further.”

"You mean there's nothing I can do? But it's _my_ fault that Saruman has that book. And my fault that I couldn't warn Gandalf in time, my fault that I left him in Isengard. There must be some way I can help—I _have_ to try, I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

" _What_ , then, do you propose to do?" Elrond asked pointedly.

I deflated at his tone, my fervor dwindling as quickly as it had come. "I…I don't know," I stammered. I felt stupid. What _could_ I do, after all? Run back to Isengard and get captured again? I was just a violinist. I wasn’t even supposed to _be_ here, anyway. None of this was supposed to be happening! “Is there anything that can be done?” I asked helplessly, feeling overwhelmed.

“Rest assured, Miss,” Elrond said, “what help I can offer to Gandalf will be given, though I fear that it will likely not be enough. I will speak to those who remain loyal to Imladris, increase the security around our borders, and gather our forces as best I can. But we are not equipped to go to war, and if what you say about the weapons in Saruman’s possession is true, Imladris is not likely to outlast an attack from Isengard."

“Imladris?”

“That is its Elvish name. You would call it Rivendell, in the Westron tongue.”

“Westron?”

Elrond closed his eyes, as though fighting back a heavy sigh. “The language we are speaking now, Miss.”

“Right. Sorry.” I felt myself flush—I was more out of my element than I thought.

The elf seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Beatrice Smith, you have done very well to bring all this news to me. And at great peril to yourself, judging by your tale. For a young woman with so little understanding of Middle Earth, you have done unthinkably well; I daresay many a seasoned warrior would not have had such success. But you know very little of Middle Earth. You are no warrior, nor spy, nor diplomat. I will likely call upon you again to learn more about the technology Saruman has summoned to Isengard from your world, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further in stopping him.”

My heart sank at his words. He was right, I knew, but that didn't change the magnitude of the problems I had caused, or the helplessness I felt.

"However, there is one thing I would ask of you, Miss Smith," he added.

"Really? What?" I perked up again.

"I must insist that you keep whatever knowledge you possess of these books a secret. Do not tell anyone, not even me, what you have read, or even what you guess, about the future of our world. I fear that such knowledge would serve only to lead us astray, despite our best intentions."

"Oh." My heart sank again. "Of course. I understand."

"Now, Miss Smith, I suggest you rest. You have had a difficult journey here, and are more than welcome to stay in our guest quarters. Lanion will have seen to your belongings." Elrond stood up, indicating our conversation was over.

"Wait, um, sir, " I hesitated. The question had been burning in the back of my mind ever since I’d arrived in Rivendell, and now that the time had come to ask it, I could barely get the words out for fear of what Elrond would say. "Is there...is there anything you can do to help me get back home?" Elrond raised his eyebrows. " _Please,_ ” I said. “Gandalf said he didn't think he could help me, but I was just hoping, maybe _you_ might be able to do something. Or maybe you know of something I could do, somewhere I could go to figure out how to get back…?"

The elf signed, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it. "I am afraid I cannot do what you ask, Miss Smith. I possess no such magical abilities, and if Gandalf cannot help you, I know of no others who might be able to do so."

Tears stung behind my eyes. It had been quite a stretch, I 'd known that. I didn't know why I'd gotten my hopes up at all. It was just the magic of this place, a secret haven of elves...it had been easy to think that anything might be possible here.

"Miss Smith?" Elrond said gently, clearly troubled by my silence.

"It's okay," I mumbled, though hardly any sound came out. "I underst..." I broke off and looked away, not trusting myself to speak around the lump in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of Elrond. I just couldn’t. I had already cried in front of nearly everyone I’d met in Middle Earth. I was pathetic. This thought made me even more miserable, and I covered my eyes with a shaking hand. "I'm sorry," I managed, taking a deep breath and steadying myself. “I’m _sorry…_ ” My voice broke.

“Why do you apologize?” the elf lord asked, shaking his head. “You have no reason to be sorry.” He approached and rested a hand on my shoulder comfortingly, though his face was still stern. “Nor do you have reason to lose hope. If I am to glean anything from your tale, it is that nothing in Middle Earth is certain. The world is changing, and the guidelines that govern us seem to no longer be set in stone. You see, Miss Smith?” He sighed, and strode to one of the low windows. His eyes were far away. “I can no longer say what is possible, or what is not. You may yet find a way home.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath and swallowing bitterly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well, Miss Smith, I believe we have spoken enough for the present. You are exhausted, and I shall not interrogate you further until you have rested and eaten.”

At his words, my shoulders slumped, as though my body hadn’t realized how tired I was until he’d pointed it out. “That sounds wonderful,” I admitted. 

Elrond opened the heavy wooden door of his library, gesturing politely for me to walk through. “Lanion will have alerted the maidservants of your arrival,” he said. “I imagine a room will have been readied for you by now in the northwest wing. I will show you the way—quickly, if you do not mind—and then I have a great deal to accomplish.”

“Thank you,” I said earnestly, following Elrond down the hall. My whole body ached with weariness, and I followed the elf rather woodenly, hardly taking in my surroundings anymore.

“Here you are, Miss Smith,” Elrond said, gesturing elegantly down a hall slightly narrower than the rest. One of the doors at the end of the hall stood open, and it was there that the elf was pointing. “Do not hesitate to alert one of the maidservants if you require anything else,” he said kindly, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “As I said before, I am afraid I will likely call on you within the next few days, to ask you further questions about your journey here.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “If there’s anything else I can do to help…”

“Of course, Miss Smith.” 

With that, the elf swept away briskly, his footsteps silent in the empty hall. I sighed, suddenly exhausted beyond words, and made my way to the open door at the end of the hall.

I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this. A low, canopied bed occupied the center of a large but cozy room, pale blue drapes hanging delicately above the bed’s frame. The ceiling was low and made of up gently arching slats of gray wood, which were adorned with faint carvings of leaves and blossoms. Blue-gray curtains framed a little window, out of which tree branches swayed lazily in the wind. An empty metal washtub sat in the corner, next to a pile of folded white blankets.

It was all so beautiful and calming and _homey—_ I wouldn’t have believed it was for me, if my dirt-covered bags and violin case weren’t stacked under the window. I sat down on the corner of the mattress, intending to unpack my things, but instead I fell back onto the bed with a deep sigh, and was asleep before my head hit the pillows.


	12. Take That, Bechdel Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story's already technically broken the Bechdel test, but Bee's gone too long in Middle Earth without speaking to another female character, so I had to do it. Also, I came up with all these chapter titles while tipsy but now I'm too fond of them to change them. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter, keep wearing your face masks, practice social distancing, defund the police, and stay safe out there, y'all.

“Up you get!” Someone was jostling my bedsheets, and I found myself shaken rudely back into wakefulness. “Come now, Miss—you’ve already missed the first dinner bell.”

I teetered to my feet, stifling a yawn, and blinked groggily at the woman who had woken me up. I hadn’t seen a female elf up close before, and was taken aback by how graceful she was—tall and willowy, with the same gleaming golden hair as Lanion and a slender gown the color of rainclouds.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Miss,” the elf said earnestly, dipping into a curtsey. “My name is Amarien, and I was sent to help you clean up before dinner.” She was positively beaming at me, and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh, I have so very many questions to ask you, for never in all my centuries have I met a mortal woman!”

“Oh—really? Well, um, thank you?” I stammered, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I’m Beatrice Smith.” I stuck out my hand, which seemed to stump Amarien as much as it had all the others in Middle Earth so far. _Does no one shake hands around here?_ After a moment’s deliberation, the elf grasped my proffered hand awkwardly in both her own and bobbed another curtsey, still gaping at me as though I were a particularly interesting zoo animal.

After another moment of awkward staring, she blinked and clapped her hands together. “Oh yes—I nearly forgot! I have prepared a bath for you. You had best clean up now while the water is hot, Miss Smith. My questions shall have to wait until dinner.”

Before I could speak, Amarien ushered me to the metal tub in the corner of the room, which was now filled with hot water, little curls of steam rising from the surface. I had never seen anything so inviting in my life, but I hesitated as Amarien swiftly moved a folded privacy screen around the tub and began darting around the room, gathering folded clothes and towels from the dresser and setting out a hairbrush on the little desk by the window. “You don’t have to do all that,” I protested, picking at a tangle in my hair in embarrassment. “Please, I’ve never had a maid or anything before—I’m sure I can manage just fine.”

“Nonsense, Miss,” Amarien said, now smoothing out the rumpled bedsheets. “Now, do hurry and bathe—you are quite filthy, if I may say so, and we shall miss dinner entirely if you continue to stand there.”

_Maybe it’s really common to have maids in Middle Earth_ , I told myself. _But they must know I can’t pay her anything!_ Uneasily conceding defeat, I stepped behind the privacy screen and peeled off my sweaty, grass-stained clothes before sinking gratefully into the tub. It was roomier than I thought it would be, and I wiggled my toes in the warm water, trying to force myself to relax. “Thank you for all this,” I said lamely, sinking deeper into the water.

“Think nothing of it,” Amarien sang from across the room. “All visitors to Imladris receive help from servants when needed. Besides,” she added, “I offered to lend you my services at the request of the guard Lanion, who told me that you would likely have difficulty with elvish clothing and customs.”

I felt my face flush and sank further into the water. “Lanion said that?” I pressed my palms against my eyes, groaning with mortification. “He must think I’m completely hopeless—”

“But you came to us in rather a bad way, did you not, Miss Smith? And dressed so oddly too, and with such strange possessions...oh, _do_ bathe quickly! I must know if all the rumors I have heard are true.”

Stifling a sigh, I scrubbed at my filthy, sunburned skin, quickly turning the water in the tub a cloudy brown. When I was as clean as I could get, I stumbled awkwardly out of the tub and wrapped myself in a towel.

“You may wear this, Miss Smith,” Amarien said, gesturing to a floor-length dress laid out on the bed. “I do hope that it fits. Tomorrow we may have some gowns hemmed for you if need be.”

I touched one of the wispy gray sleeves admiringly. “Thank you, that’s very gen—wait, what’s _that_?”

“These?” Next to the dress, Amarien was unfolding what looked like a pair of billowy linen shorts. “Why, underclothes, of course, Miss.”

“How do I—I mean, why are they so _long_?”

The elf smothered her laughter with a dainty hand. “Do you mean to say that your people do not wear underthings?” To my horror, she turned and picked up my pile of rumpled, dirty clothing from the floor and began digging through them curiously.

“Ew, stop!” I wrenched them from her arms, wanting to prevent her from a close examination of my old underwear. “We do wear underwear, alright? Just nothing that…big.” I set down my old Texas clothes in a huff, scooped up the elvish garments, and ducked behind the screen again to change.

“Let me help you into your gown,” Amarien said brightly, moving to follow me.

“I’m sure I can get dressed by myself,” I exclaimed, shooing her away. My confidence deflated rather suddenly as I held up the offending underwear and realized I couldn’t tell which side was the front. _Oh, come on._ Fingers crossed, I made my best guess, then slipped the embroidered gray dress over my head. As I hopped around clumsily trying to get the gown’s narrow waist over my shoulders, I noticed that another garment had been folded alongside it. I bent to pick it up, but the dress, tighter than it looked, had pinned my arms halfway above my head. “Great,” I muttered, shimmying around frantically and only managing to get more stuck. “Freaking great.”

“Miss Smith?” Amarien called sweetly. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” I gritted out. Maybe taking the dress off and trying again would do it—I did my best to wriggle back out, but the dress only grew tighter about my shoulders, the folds of fabric flopping over my eyes and smothering me like a boa constrictor suffocating its prey.

“Are you certain you do not need— _ha!”_ Amarien had clearly stepped around the privacy screen and burst into peals of laughter.

Blindly, I shuffled around to face her, my arms still stuck straight in the air, wrists swinging limply over my head. “Something went wrong,” I admitted, my voice muffled under layers of dress.

Still choking on giggles, Amarien wrenched the dress free, and I fell back in a defeated slump. “Lanion was right. You are quite helpless,” she said gleefully. “Why did you attempt to fit the gown over your head? And you did not even put on the chemise first!”

I folded my arms across my chest self-consciously. “What’s a chemise?”

The elf picked up the second garment from the floor, unfolding it to reveal a thin white shift. “It is what you wear under your dress, of course. Goodness, what uncivilized society must you be accustomed to?”

I flushed as I snatched the shift from her hands and climbed into it, as carefully as I could. There were laces in the back, which gave support to a bra-like structure built into the front, made up of a stiff sort of plating over the chest and down the ribcage. Amarien tied the laces, which were surprisingly comfortable, before helping me step into the silver-gray gown. It had a row of complex little buttons at the front, and I sighed, already longing for the simplicity of zippers. 

Next, with more patience than I had expected of her, Amarien went on to braid my damp hair and pin it in a neat bun at the base of my neck, and even showed me how to brush my teeth with a little linen cloth and some kind of paste that smelled like spearmint.

“There you are at last, Miss! Good as new, or nearly so,” she said. She pressed a burnished copper hand mirror into my hand, and as I peered into it I saw what she meant—while the bath and wardrobe change had made a world of difference, there were still deep greenish bruises behind my left eye and around my nose, from where Saruman had struck me with his staff. I made a face and set the mirror face-down back on the desk.

“Thank you again, Amarien—you didn’t have to do all this for me.”

She rolled her eyes and pressed a pair of flat, fabric-covered shoes into my hands. “Thank me again and I shall leave this room at once, Miss,” she said firmly. “Then you shall get hopelessly lost in the halls and miss dinner entirely! Besides, this evening has already been far more entertaining than I had hoped.”

I felt my ears burn at her teasing, though I perked up at the reminder of dinner, suddenly starving. “Oh, never mind. Let’s go—I’ve been living off berries and roots for three days now!” I stumbled into the shoes and we hurried out the door.

“Living off of roots and berries, you say?” Amarien asked me as she led me down Rivendell’s halls. “Did you find them with the Brown Wizard’s help? Is it true that he rescued you in the wilderness?”

“Hmm?” I said blankly, only half-listening as I gazed around. Rivendell was even more beautiful now than before, transformed by the thick golden rays of evening sunlight. The air was heavy with the scent of unidentifiable flowers and the far-off sound of rushing water. My feet slowed as I tried to take it all in at once. “Oh—yeah, that’s right,” I replied at last, forcing myself back into the present. “Radagast helped me get here. Did Lanion tell you that?”

“Yes, but precious little else, as he was in quite a hurry to return to his patrol,” Amarien complained, looking at me expectantly. Taking the hint, I sighed and filled her in on my journey to Rivendell. I skipped over a lot of detail out of sheer exhaustion, though I could see from the thrilled gleam in her eyes that I wouldn’t escape a more thorough interrogation later.

I was still struggling through the end my story as we entered a wide dining hall. The walls were a pale silvery wood, which fell away on one side to reveal terraced gardens and winding footpaths. “Oh, what a tale this is!” Amarien exclaimed, clapping her hands together as though I had described an action movie rather than a real life-or-death escape. “Magic, betrayal, kidnapping—it is no wonder there are so few people eating dinner now, with news such as this. Lord Elrond must have half the valley in an uproar!”

As I looked around, I saw that Amarien was right; the dining hall was nearly empty, with only a few elves sitting at the long wooden tables. Half-empty water jugs and wine carafes were set out among picked-over plates of roast chickens, greens, and loaves of brown bread. We sat down, and a maid swept over to us, setting out plates and glasses. It seemed that food service wasn’t part of Amarien’s duties, for which I was glad. I felt awkward about her doing things for me, no matter what she said.

“And to think,” Amarien was saying as I piled my plate with food and attacked it with vigor, “I must be one of the first in Imladris to know of such events! Oh, Mirnil and Lhosdess will be so jealous—you must fill me in on every miniscule detail, Miss Smith, for I long to see them turn green with envy!”

I snorted into my plate, earning a shocked look from my companion. “I’m sorry,” I said around a mouthful of chicken—I had studiously avoided the vegetables, feeling that I’d eaten enough wild greens under Radagast’s care to last a lifetime. “But I didn’t know elves were so, uh…gossipy.”

Amarien rolled her eyes. “Oh, I beg you not to lecture me about propriety or maturity, Miss Smith. Mistress Halthel—the housekeeper—always says such things to me, and it grows so dull to hear. You must remember, Miss, that I am quite young compared to many of the others in Imladris, and as Halthel often says, these failings of personality will likely go away in time.”

“How old are you, then?”

“I passed my second century a few years ago,” she said with an airy wave of her fork, “though many of us do not count the years as fastidiously as Men do. I take it my age surprises you?” she added primly, smiling as I gaped at her.

“A bit, yeah,” I managed. I remembered from the movie that elves were immortal, but it was another thing entirely to see someone who looked to be about twenty and realize…

“And how old are you then, Miss Smith?” Amarien asked eagerly. “You cannot yet be forty, though I admit I am a terrible judge—Men age so messily, you know, even dear young Estel—”

“I’m twenty-four,” I said defensively. “Twenty-five in a few months.” Another thought occurred to me. “Hold up, you said you’ve never met a mortal woman before. How is that possible, if you’ve lived so long?”

Amarien shrugged, taking a liberal swallow of wine. “Oh, Imladris has seen precious few visitors of late, as travel across Middle Earth becomes more perilous with each passing year. But even so, rare is it that a mortal woman makes her way to the valley. I cannot recall any such woman ever doing so, though such things may have taken place before I was born.”

“Oh,” I said, turning back to my food. I’d suspected, of course, that women would have fewer freedoms in Middle Earth than they would back home, but now I wondered how far that extended—and if that might make it even harder for me to find out how to get home.

The rest of my dinner consisted of hasty forkfuls of food stolen in gaps in our conversation. It was nice to talk to someone friendly and chatty after spending so many days in relative silence. Amarien seemed to be thrilled to find someone so curious about her, and I was grateful to have a distraction from the events of the previous few days.

Still, whether because of her self-professed immaturity or some natural elvish caprice, Amarien leapt up rather abruptly as I was finishing my last helping of potatoes. “I am weary of sitting here,” she declared. “Besides, it is time I find Mistress Halthel and begin my duties for the night. She shall be ever so glad to hear that you found my assistance helpful. You _have_ found it helpful, have you not?” she added suddenly, fixing me with a challenging stare.

“I—oh, yes, of course,” I said helplessly.

“Oh, how dearly kind of you to say so,” Amarien replied, beaming at me. “Now then—you said you are a musician, correct? Then of course you shall wish to visit the Hall of Fire before retiring for the night. Many of us gather there in the evenings, to sing and share stories,” she explained. “I am certain you will find it simply spellbinding! Just follow that corridor there.” She pointed with a graceful hand, then patted me on the head and drifted away without another word.

I stood up, shaking my head in confusion. “Elves are weird,” I muttered, before downing the rest of my wine and taking Amarien’s advice. The corridor she had pointed out was led through several winding halls and courtyards, all bathed in a deep reddish gold from torches that had been lit along the walls as evening wore on.

I heard the Hall of Fire long before I reached it. The ethereal music I had noticed upon first entering Rivendell now flooded my senses again, harps and strings mingled with fey voices, one moment teasing, the next haunting. The hall had been aptly named. An enormous fireplace took up the far end of a cavernous room dotted with overstuffed chairs and little tables, at which several elves were writing, chatting, reading, laughing—and in front of the fire, two elves were singing, their voices bringing sudden tears to my eyes. A third elf stood beside them, playing some kind of violin.

Entranced, I found myself perched in one of the empty chairs and staring at the instrument. It wasn’t the same as my violin back home, but it was close—a wider body made of pale wood, no chin rest, a scroll carved gently with a pattern of vining leaves. The bow was elegant, curved outward instead of inward, strung with horsehair that seemed to glow silver in the firelight. My fingers itched at my sides—I hadn’t gone so long without playing in years, and I wondered what playing an elven violin would be like.

Sighing dreamily at the thought, I let my mind wander, my exhausted limbs becoming oddly weightless in the unearthly melody. As the elven voices continued in words I didn’t understand, my mind slowly drifted up above the roaring fireplace, through the sloping gray rooftops and outward. It spilled over the clifftops and waterfalls encircling the valley, reflecting the golden starlight above, which glittered like pinpricks of sunlight through a deep velvet curtain…

Then a graceful hand was shaking my shoulder. “Wake up, Miss,” an elven voice laughed. “It is no good to fall asleep here. Make your way back to your rooms, if you will, for our accommodations are a great deal more comfortable for mortal rest than an armchair!”

It was one of the elves who had been singing. Weight returned to my limbs as I stumbled to my feet, suddenly bone-tired. “What were you singing about?” I asked her eagerly, looking around for the violinist, but he had disappeared.

“Oh, it was only a bit of poetry,” she said airily. She spoke Westron haltingly, with a thicker accent than Amarien’s. “We sang of Anarrima, whose stars have just shown themselves in the summer sky for the first time tonight. It is a constellation,” she added at the blank look on my face, “hung in the sky by Varda before the wakening of the elves, and made from the dewdrops of Telperion, one of the Trees of Valinor.”

“Cool,” I said blankly. “Uh, I mean—it was really beautiful. And that _violin—_ ”

“Yes, yes, it was lovely,” interrupted a voice from behind us. “But you promised to perform my newest poem, Mistress Lhosdess, and it would have been a good deal more exciting than another song about the stars.”

“Oh, I do apologize, Master Hobbit,” Lhosdess laughed, turning to the newcomer. “But we did not wish to sing your poetry while you were sleeping so soundly!”

_Hobbit?_ Suddenly I was wide awake. My first thought was that Frodo must have already reached Rivendell, and I struggled to put together what little I remembered of the movie—but then the hobbit stepped into the firelight, and I knew he was far too old to be Frodo. He was a tiny figure, with wisps of white hair encircling his head like a cloud and a little cane tapping on the tiled floor next to wildly hairy feet.

“Sleeping?” he repeated indignantly. “How often must I tell you all that I prefer to listen to your music with my eyes closed? It helps me to think. Sleeping— _sleeping_ , I ask you…Oh, and who is this?” the hobbit added, noticing me for the first time. 

“This is our newest visitor,” Lhosdess said knowledgeably. “She arrived in Imladris only this morning from a faraway land, I have heard, bringing news of magic and betrayal.” She turned to me, as though to confirm her story. But I was still staring open-mouthed at the hobbit. He certainly wasn’t Frodo or Sam, so unless there were other hobbits running around Rivendell who weren’t mentioned in the movie, then he must be—

“Bilbo Baggins at your service,” the hobbit smiled up at me. “And allow me to say, welcome to the Last Homely House—”

Bilbo broke off, and both he and Lhosdess stared at me in alarm. I realized I’d let out a wild squeak at the sound of his name. “I…uh, sorry,” I stammered, feeling my face flush. “You’re _really_ Bilbo?”

“Goodness me, I’m quite certain I am,” he said, looking rather taken aback.

“Oh my gosh—I mean, I can’t believe it’s really you!” I stifled another squeak with difficulty, but couldn’t stop myself from hopping from foot to foot. It wasn’t quite like when I met Gandalf, who I had recognized right away—the hobbit wasn’t at all how I’d pictured him. If only I had a copy of _The Hobbit_ for him to sign…

“Er…how is it you’ve heard of me?” Bilbo asked, now looking rather concerned for my sanity.

“Oh, I’ve read all about your adventures—they were my favorite stories growing up!” I stammered. “You have no idea—I named my pet cat after you when I was eight!”

Bilbo’s wispy eyebrows had steadily migrated northward as I spoke. “Well then! I did not know my reputation had preceded me quite so much. But I am glad to meet you, Miss…?”

“Beatrice,” I said, thrusting my hand out toward him. Without missing a beat, he clasped my hand in his own and shook it heartily. “Um, if it’s not too much to ask,” I added, suddenly starstruck, “could I ask you some questions tomorrow? About your adventures, and everything?”

The hobbit leaned on his cane and smiled. “Perhaps you might take elevensies with me tomorrow, then?” I nodded excitedly, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “I will answer your questions then—but only if you promise to stop _hopping_ like that, Miss,” Bilbo added. I stopped bouncing with some difficulty. 

The spring returned to my step after I bade Lhosdess and Bilbo goodnight and left the Hall of Fire. Whatever elevensies were, I couldn’t wait. Radagast and Lanion had been right—Rivendell was truly magical.


	13. Bed and Breakfast and Breakfast

“Now then,” Bilbo said, piling so many seed cakes onto his plate that I could barely see the top of his curly head across the table, “where did we leave off yesterday? I believe you had just finished translating that lovely poem about birch trees.”

I flipped through the tattered book and propped it open against a teapot. “Oh yeah, the Robert Frost one. Want to look at more of his poems, then?”

“There are more? Excellent, excellent—those are by far my favorites from your homeland. Oh, but do eat something, my dear, before we get started!” Ignoring my protests, the old hobbit tipped a few cakes onto my plate. “You _really_ ought to eat more, you know. How the big folk can manage on just a single meal before lunchtime is beyond me.”

“Oh, no—that’s plenty, thanks,” I protested, scooting my plate out of his reach. I’d learned that it was useless trying to explain to Bilbo that two breakfasts as well as elevensies would in all likelihood make me die of a heart attack by the age of forty.

It had been nearly two weeks since I’d arrived in Rivendell, though I found it hard to track just how many days had passed. To my fangirlish delight, Bilbo and I had quickly fallen into the habit of meeting over elevensies to share stories from our homelands. However, he’d been so disappointed that I didn’t know any poems from my world to share with him that I’d gifted him the books I’d stolen from Saruman’s hoard, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity. The hobbit had been thrilled by the books, but, much to my horror, he immediately conscripted me into translating the entirety of _American Poetry of the 18 th and 19th Centuries _into Westron, and had taken to questioning me for hours over word choices and rhyme schemes.

“No, no, no,” Bilbo _hmphed_ for the fifth time in as many minutes, scratching out a few words with his quill. “A direct translation of that line won’t do at all—the rhythm sounded much stronger in its native tongue. Let’s try again, eh?” I nodded, stifling a sigh into my teacup and turning back to the book.

“Bee, there you are!”

“Amarien!” I looked up from Bilbo’s notes gratefully. It had taken days of pestering her, but she’d finally agreed to stop calling me ‘miss.’

The elf maid curtseyed gracefully. “Master Baggins, I do apologize for taking away your guest, but I am afraid Bee is needed at once.”

The old hobbit barely looked up from his parchment, still poring over the lines I’d translated. He waved a seedcake in my direction distractedly, flinging crumbs across the table. “No worries; go on then, my dear. We will resume our writing tomorrow, if you like.”

I waved goodbye and followed Amarien down the hall. “What is it?” I asked urgently when we were out of earshot. “Is everything okay?”

She burst into laughter. “Nothing is the matter, of course. I only thought you were in need of rescue.”

“That’s horrible,” I chided, giggling despite myself.

“I meant no offense to our dear hobbit, of course,” she said, still grinning from ear to pointy ear. “He is an excellent poet, but a bit overeager. Perhaps all mortal creatures grow more eccentric in their old age.” She studied me sidelong. “I don’t doubt you will be much the same, given time.”

“Hey!”

“Well, I confess myself rather curious. Bilbo is the only elderly person I have ever met, you know.”

“Oh…I hadn’t thought about that.” I softened. “That must be strange.”

“I think I should very much like to know you when you are old,” Amarien said with a grin. “Unlike Bilbo with his poems, you will no doubt spend all your days lecturing others about music from your homeland. Oh, what a character you shall be!”

“Um…thanks,” I replied. I wasn’t sure if she had complimented me or not, but my stomach twisted at the knowledge that, with any luck, she _wouldn’t_ get to know me when I was old.

“Have I offended you, Bee?” Amarien asked hesitantly. “I did not mean to, you know."

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said. “It’s just…the idea of being stuck here all my life, never finding my way home.” Amarien’s face fell. “It’s not that I don’t like it here,” I said quickly. “But I can’t just sit around forever with no idea of what to do—”

“As to that,” Amarien said, grabbing my arm, “I have an idea. Come with me.”

With surprising strength, the elf dragged me down the hall, and I vaguely recognized the twists and turns as taking us to Elrond’s library.

“Lord Elrond?” Amarien pushed the heavy doors open with a creak.

Elrond glanced up from his desk and sighed. “Amarien, need I remind you to knock before entering a room?”

She curtseyed, wincing slightly, and I grinned; Amarien may have been over two hundred years old, but it was often very obvious how much younger she was than the other elves I’d met. “Sorry, my lord. But I wished to ask for your permission to search through your library.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. So did Elrond. “I did not know you to be particularly studious,” he said.

“It is for Bee—Miss Beatrice, that is,” she said, pushing me forward.

“Hello,” I said. Amarien elbowed me. “Uh…my lord,” I added awkwardly.

“I had wondered if perhaps Bee might find information about her homeland in your records,” Amarien said excitedly. “If you would give us leave to conduct a search of your private collections…”

Elrond considered the matter. “Your idea may have some merit, Amarien. This library is one of the largest in Middle Earth, save perhaps Men’s collection in Minas Tirith. Even I have not read all of its contents. But I must warn you, Beatrice, that it is unlikely you will find any mentions of your homeland, let alone methods of contacting your people or traveling back to your city.”

“I understand,” I said, warming to the idea immediately. “But it’s better than nothing. I can’t just sit here wondering if I’m ever going to make it back and worrying about Gandalf, not able to do anything about it. And I’m sorry to ask—are you _sure_ there isn’t any news, anything at all—?”

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Beatrice, you ask me every time you pass me in the halls; for the last time, I will inform you as soon as I have any news of Gandalf or of the…situation in Isengard. In the meantime, peruse my library at your will. Amarien, perhaps you might act as a translator for your friend, as most of our works are written in elvish. I will tell Mistress Halthel to reduce your servant’s duties, that you might have time to spare.”

I picked at my sleeve uncomfortably. “Actually, Elrond—” Amarien elbowed me again. “ _Lord_ Elrond,” I corrected myself. “I was wondering if I could help Amarien with her work.”

He looked taken aback. “Is that so?”

“Well, it’s been bothering me for a while, sir—uh, I mean, my lord—that I can’t pay for my room and board here, let alone for a maid service or anything else.”

“Ah, but that is not our way,” Elrond said gently. “The Last Homely House is open to travelers such as yourself. We do not expect our guests to earn their keep in such a manner, especially not if they have come to us seeking shelter from great peril.”

“But I’m not really a traveler anymore, or in peril, am I?” I protested. “I just don’t like feeling useless—and who knows how long I’ll be stuck here, doing nothing? Please, I just feel…weird receiving all your help without earning it.”

“We will gladly accept any help you can give,” Elrond said, looking bemused, “though you must understand that one mortal woman is hardly a burden to us. But if that is what you wish, you shall report to the housekeeper alongside Amarien tomorrow morning, and she will divide your duties accordingly. In your free time, however, by all means search for information about your Texas in my library. I wish you and Amarien luck.” 

“We’ve done it!” Amarien squeezed my arm as Elrond ushered us out of his office with a rather exasperated expression on his ageless face. Her happiness was infectious; I grinned back. “But you truly intend to act as a maidservant?”

I nodded determinedly. “It’s like I said, I’m not used to having nothing to do. I’ve had at least one job since I was sixteen, even through college. And it still feels weird to have you draw baths for me and stuff. I may as well learn out how to do it for myself.”

Amarien beamed at me. “How strange you are. But I thank you for it.”

Mistress Halthel was far less pleased by my offer. An elegant, dark-haired elf who looked no older than thirty, she had a tightness about her jaw that seemed to have come from long-suffering impatience. “So, then, Beatrice. Have you worked in large households such as this before?”

“No, ma’am. I used to work in an office. It was mostly research, statistics, and writing—”

“Hmm. At least you are literate, though I presume you cannot read elvish?” I shook my head. Halthel sighed. “Then you will be unable to correspond with our traders and suppliers. But you certainly can sew?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Can you knit? Or work a loom?”

“No, ma’am,” I said again, withering under Halthel’s glare.

She rounded on Amarien. “Teach Beatrice to mend clothes, then, and quickly; she shall at least be of some help to the ladies’ maids. In the meantime, she can keep our guest quarters clean in case we receive new visitors. Luckily for you, Beatrice, we are not in dire need of housemaids or other services, or you should prove entirely useless.”

Being berated by an elvish housekeeper was such a novel experience that I couldn’t bring myself to be very offended. “I’m happy to hear it, ma’am,” I said bracingly.

With a roll of her eyes, Halthel dismissed us.

Soon Amarien was dragging me out of bed at the crack of dawn to teach me housekeeping duties. My mornings became absorbed with learning to wash clothes without a washing machine and accidentally stabbing myself in the thumb with a sewing needle, and I found myself exhausted enough to be quite grateful for Bilbo’s offer of multiple breakfasts. Still, I found myself enjoying the work. Amarien made for excellent company, and the work added purpose to my days, which no longer blurred together quite so much.

When I finished with my daily maid’s duties, I would lose myself amongst the dusty shelves of Rivendell’s library, pulling out stacks of leather-bound books and half-crumbling scrolls by the armful. I set up shop at a little mahogany table in one of the back rooms, warmed by a sunny window and stained with decades of splattered ink and wax.

True to her word, Amarien patiently translated line after line for me, sometimes skimming through entire books and giving tidy summaries of centuries of history, culture, and politics—anything that might make mention of other worlds, while I took meandering notes on a roll of parchment, muttering curses in English as I struggled to write with a quill and ink. _If only I hadn’t left that ballpoint pen back in that cell in Isengard…_

Writing with a quill and ink turned out to be the least of my problems. Elrond seemed to have been right: _nothing_ in the library had anything to do with travel or communication with my homeland. It seemed that, come what may, I was stuck in Middle Earth for the time being.

The weeks fell away, and before I knew it autumn had come to Rivendell. Ever so slowly, the thickets and forests exploded into reds and yellows, and a delightful crispness seeped into the air. Amarien laughed and laughed at my amazement at the change that had overcome the valley.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” I exclaimed, leaning wistfully on one of the balconies in the Hall of Fire. “I’ve never seen fall colors like this—most trees don’t change color back in Texas.”

“Do they not?” Amarien asked, a note of amusement in her voice. I’d told her all this several times already.

“This is all just so _pretty_. And I still can’t believe it, it’s actually getting _cold,_ it _never_ gets cold back home—”

“Yes, yes.” Amarien patted my back indulgently, then spun around. “Oh—hello there, Lanion! You’ve not graced us with your presence for quite some time.”

I nearly toppled off the balcony. “Lanion?”

The guard smiled at us as he stepped onto the balcony, his teeth flashing white in the evening sun. I thought I’d gotten used to the otherworldly beauty of elves by now, but I still felt blood rush to my face at the sight of the first elf I’d ever seen. His hair was so pale it seemed to glow… _It should be illegal to be that handsome,_ I thought furiously.

“Forgive me, Amarien. My patrols have taken me far from our dear valley of late. And howdy, Beatrice. I am glad to see you looking well.”

“ _What?”_ The spell of his ethereal beauty shattered at once. “Why—why’d you say _howdy_?” I cried, hardly able to breathe through my laughter.

Lanion looked quite taken aback. “You greeted me thus when I escorted you to Imladris. Is it not a term from your native tongue?”

Helplessly, I doubled over with giggles, unable to respond. Amarien patted my back sympathetically. “What brings you back from patrol so soon, Lanion?” she asked, ignoring my choking laughter.

He shook his head at me and turned back to Amarien. “There have been reports of enemy movements near Rivendell. I have just given my report to Lord Elrond, and must return to the wilds tomorrow. However, I do have good news for your friend here, if she might overcome her fit of madness,” he added wryly, turning back to me. I stopped laughing and did my best to look apologetic. “My cousin Lhosdess mentioned that you are a violinist, Beatrice. As it happens, I had learned to play a century or two ago, and have an instrument that you might borrow.” 

I was stunned. “What, really? You’re sure I can use it?”

“I doubt I will have much opportunity to perform while on patrol, after all.” He slung a bag from his shoulders and handed me a cloth violin case.

I took the instrument reverently. “ _Thank_ you!” All embarrassment forgotten, I hugged Lanion around the middle and bounced on the balls of my feet.

The violin was beautiful, with the same pale, golden wood and inverted bow as the instruments I’d watched enviously in the Hall of Fire. Was it really centuries old? And the craftsmanship was astounding; it was certainly in a different league than my violin back home, which I’d bought secondhand on eBay—

“Beatrice!”

“Huh?” I tore my eyes away from the violin.

Amarien rolled her eyes. “I was _saying_ , perhaps you might perform something for us, before Lanion returns to his post?”

“Oh, yes, of course…” I said, turning back to the instrument reverently.

My first performance in the Hall of Fire drew an enormous crowd, as most of the elves were wildly curious about music from beyond Middle Earth. I’d luckily outgrown stage fright from an early age, and was thrilled to be in my element again. But as it turned out, most of the songs I knew from the modern world were a bit of an acquired taste for elves. The classical pieces were too dull, the country and pop songs too strange. Soon only Bilbo regularly listened to my songs, and took to interrupting me every few minutes to ask me about the meaning behind their composition or their accompanying lyrics.

As content as I’d become with my violin, my research in Elrond’s library, and my newfound friends in Rivendell, the weeks dragged on, the weather grew colder, and my high spirits faded away with the last of the summer flowers.

What were my friends back in Dallas doing right now? I couldn’t help but dwell on it, even though I knew I was doing everything I could to get back home. Had Caroline chosen a topic for her graduate thesis? Had they all kept up with the string quartet now that I was gone? Had they found a new first violinist, or did they become a trio, unwilling to replace me? Was my mother still living by herself in the middle of nowhere, or had she gone to stay with her extended family out in Amarillo after she’d learned of my disappearance?

Each little question led to others, until they marched through my mind, one after another, as I ate my meals, as I made my way listlessly through the gardens and walking paths, as I lay in my little bed near the window, shutters drawn tight to keep out the autumn chill.

Were my friends planning their Halloween costumes? Had my office hired a replacement for me? I had vanished with Nathan’s copy of _The Lord of the Rings—_ had he bought a new one to replace it? It was his favorite book, after all. Was there someone new living in my apartment? I imagined so—it had been over two months now. Did the new tenants keep my old lime green sofa? _God, I hope they did._ I missed that hideous old sofa more than I could say, and couldn’t bear the thought of it being tossed onto the curb. 

It was with these thoughts and a thousand others that I found myself crying quietly on a bench in one of the gardens. The tears had overwhelmed me quite suddenly, and in my last moments of level-headedness I’d managed to slip away to a more secluded area, where I was less likely to be seen as I clutched my knees to my chest on a stone bench, pressing my eyelids to my kneecaps and sobbing until the faded denim of my jeans was wet. Amarien had helped me clean and sew up my old Texas clothes, and I’d taken to wearing them on days like this, when I was desperately sad.

“Beatrice?”

I didn’t look up. “Please, go away,” I moaned, clutching my knees tighter. Whoever it wasn’t didn’t reply, but I heard the soft tapping of a cane, then the _whump_ of someone sitting down next to me. A child-sized hand patted my shoulder gently.

“Would you like me to send for some tea?” Bilbo asked after a long moment.

I shook my head. “I d-don’t want anything. I just—I just wanna go home,” I bit out, drowning in bitter waves of self-pity. I lowered my knees and buried my face in my hands, horrible choking sobs escaping through my fingers. Bilbo patted my arm again, only serving to make me cry harder. “How am I ever going to get back?” I said hoarsely. “Amarien and I are looking through the library almost every day, but we haven’t found _anything_ , not even a hint…” I wiped at my nose self-consciously. “I always wanted to have an adventure like yours, but how can I ever go there and back again if there’s no way _back?”_

“You know,” Bilbo said after a moment, pulling a pipe from his pocket, “after my adventures, I found that even the farthest points on a map aren’t as distant as they may seem. Why, our maps in the Shire did not even extend far enough to mark the Lonely Mountain when I set out for it all those years ago, yet it was just as reachable as any other destination, if one was willing to travel far enough.” He paused to fill his pipe, then puffed at it, stretching his wooly toes out in front of him thoughtfully. “It will not be easy, Beatrice. You’ve been swept far downriver, but as long as you continue rowing, you will find yourself back at your own front door in the end.”

I shook my head. “I haven’t so much been swept down a river, I’ve—I’ve plunged down a waterfall, and now I’m floating down the wrong river entirely. How do you row back up a waterfall?”

“Well, as luck would have it, I met someone recently who flew halfway across Middle Earth in a flying machine. That ought to be enough to get you up a waterfall, oughtn’t it?”

I laughed weakly, before dissolving back into tears.

“There, there, my dear…” Bilbo patted my back. “Come now, pull your thoughts together. I have a question for you.”

I hesitated and looked up at him with bleary eyes. “What?”

Bilbo smiled, and adopted a very serious expression. “ _Hard to catch, but easy to hold; what can’t be seen unless it’s cold?”_

I groaned, wiping at my eyes impatiently. “A riddle? I’m not…I’m not in the mood, Bilbo.”

He shrugged and patted my shoulder in understanding. “Ah, never mind, then.”

We sat in silence for a while as I tried to gather myself together. Despite myself, I found myself contemplating his words. _Hard to catch, easy to hold…_ It was hard to stew in my own misery when there was a mystery to be solved—and doubtless that was why he’d asked it, damn him. _Can’t be seen unless it’s cold…_ Slowly my shoulders stopped shaking, and my breathing started to calm down as I thought— _wait, wait!_ “It’s breath, isn’t it?” I asked.

The hobbit nodded and clapped his hands together. “Very good!”

I laughed at my own success; the sound took me by surprise. I thought for a moment and wiped the last of my tears away. “Okay… _What can’t be used unless it’s broken?_ ” I offered, my voice rather shaky.

“Oh, an egg, an egg, of course,” Bilbo answered almost immediately, but he smiled appreciatively at my effort. “Now then: _Now that you are given one, you’re either left with two or none.”_

That one stumped me. “I don’t know,” I said at last.

The hobbit looked unbothered. “Do not worry. I quite like telling my riddles to someone who appreciates them. The elves always guess the answers so quickly—they are no fun at all.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“If you cannot guess it, ask me another of your own! I am eager to hear more riddles from your homeland.”

I thought for a long time. “Oh!” I snapped my fingers in triumph as I remembered one I’d read on an old travel brochure. “ _Where do you find roads without cars, forests without trees, and cities without houses?_ ”

“What are cars?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said quickly. “Roads without wagons, then. Or horses.”

“A map, is it?” Bilbo said, and clapped his hands in delight when I nodded. “Oh, now that is an excellent riddle. I should put it to rhyme.” He asked me to repeat it, and jotted the lines down carefully in the notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. I puffed up my chest despite myself, feeling absurdly proud.

Our game went back and forth several more times (though I lost nearly every riddle the old hobbit threw at me), and I found myself smiling quite earnestly, the tears on my cheeks having dried without my noticing.

Finally I admitted defeat. “I can’t think of another one,” I said at last, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to think. “I’m sorry. I never learned many riddles. Wait…” A sly thought crossed my mind. “ _What have I got in my pocket?_ ” I asked, and Bilbo laughed in surprise.

“Of course, you know of my riddle game under Goblin Town,” he said, shaking his head. “It was not a proper riddle then, nor is it now. But I suppose I cannot fault you for asking.”

“You can have three guesses,” I offered.

“Hmm.” Bilbo frowned, clearly not liking the taste of his own medicine, and I squirmed in my seat, already feeling guilty. The hobbit squinted calculatingly at my jeans, clearly wondering what objects could be found in the pockets of such strange clothing. “Money,” he guessed after a while. “A coin purse, perhaps, from your homeland.”

I shook my head, and he scowled. “A handkerchief?” he said, less certain than before, and let out a muttered curse when I shook my head again. The hobbit studied the guilty look on my face for a moment, and rubbed at his chin. “Hmph!” he exclaimed. “There is nothing in your pockets at all, is there?”

I laughed. “You’re kind of right,” I said apologetically. “It was a trick question. Look,” I plucked at the fabric of my jeans, showing him the fake seam. “I don’t have pockets.”

_“What?”_ Bilbo looked horrified at the idea.

“The seam here was added to give the appearance of a pocket, see? But there’s nothing _behind_ the seam. It’s not fashionable for women’s pants to have big pockets where I’m from, so they’re sometimes made without any at all.”

“Well!” The hobbit folded his arms and huffed. “ _Well_. I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?” He chuckled, then sighed. “It was never a fair question in the first place, was it? Though it was not my fault, not my fault at all, after all Gollum was not playing fair either, was he?”

I winced; I hadn’t meant to bring up unpleasant memories, but the hobbit had turned away, looking older and smaller than usual. He was silent for a long moment. “He would have killed me if I hadn’t asked something,” he muttered at last. I wondered if he’d forgotten I was there. “And I didn’t mean to take it, I didn’t steal it, of course I didn’t…I found it, it was rightfully mine, I won it—didn’t I?”

The last question was directed at me, and I quailed under the lost, pained look on the hobbit’s face. “Yes,” I reassured him. “You didn’t steal it. Of course you didn’t.”

“I found it,” he repeated softly, uncertainly, as though trying to remember a half-forgotten dream. “It came to me.” I was startled to see tears in the old hobbit’s eyes, and my hands twisted in my lap uncertainly. I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t realized the Ring still had such a hold on him; he’d already given it up to Frodo, hadn’t he? I felt like an idiot for bringing it up at all. Suddenly, despite what he’d told me earlier, I thought that maybe he hadn’t come home from his adventure after all, not entirely.

I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said with forced bravado, “you got my riddle right, technically. So now it’s your turn.”

“Oh!” Bilbo nodded, starting slightly as though waking up from a deep sleep. “Yes. Yes. Let’s see now…”

Following several more rounds of impossible-to-guess riddles, I conceded defeat and made my way back inside, with the vague thought of changing back into my elvish clothes before dinner.

“Beatrice!” 

I spun around. “Lanion! You’re back from patrol already?”

“Indeed I am,” he replied, shaking my hand gallantly. “Howdy,” he added, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, howdy.” I rolled my eyes, glad to find myself less starstruck by him than before. The whole mocking-elvish-caprice shtick had effectively smothered my crush on him. “What brings you back to Rivendell?”

He shrugged. “More news to report to Lord Elrond. As to what brought me _here,_ I thought you might like to know that an old friend of yours has just arrived in the valley.”

“An old friend?” I cast my mind around—I had a limited number of friends in Middle Earth, and most of them were already here. “What, is Radagast here?”

“A close guess,” Lanion said, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Not the Brown Wizard, but the Grey.”

My jaw dropped. “Gandalf is here? He’s okay?”

“He is speaking with Lord Elrond now in the library, but I am certain he will have a great deal to speak with you about—”

Lanion kept speaking, but I was already sprinting in the direction of the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone likes this chapter! It's one of my favorites so far- there was something very cathartic about imagining day-to-day life in Rivendell- hanging out telling riddles and watching the seasons turn- when the real world is so...much. Maybe I should stop reading the news all the time. Anywho, my updates will be more sporadic from now on since the next chapters are still works in progress. But your comments have been very inspiring and the plot will keep moving forward soon enough!
> 
> In the meantime, can anyone guess Bilbo's riddle for Bee? "Now that you are given one, you're either left with two or none." The answer might pop up later on, as it's ~thematically significant.~


	14. A Dash of Foresight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with my slower updates! The next several chapters are in the works already—and get pumped y’all, because it’s almost Council Time. And thanks so much for all the kudos, bookmarks, and comments—they really do inspire me to keep working on this mess of a story. I’m also glad to see I’m not the only one who’s super into riddles!

“So, then.” Gandalf studied me from under his craggy eyebrows. “Beatrice Smith. You have been through a great deal since we last met.”

“You could say that,” I said hesitantly, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. Gandalf had spent nearly three hours speaking privately with Elrond, and had only just emerged from the library. Looking exhausted, he had beckoned me to one of the nearby gardens, where I sat opposite him on a cold stone bench, scuffing my shoes into the dirt in the dying evening light.

“And you have had the rather… _dubious_ honor of having met three wizards in about as many days,” he added.

“But it _was_ an honor to meet you and Radagast,” I said quickly.

“Indeed?” Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Then I am flattered to hear it.” With a rustle, he pulled a long pipe from his sleeve and busied himself with filling it. After a long moment, he sighed and turned to me. “I daresay I owe you an apology.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “What for? I should be apologizing to you. I mean, I left _you_ in Isengard! I flew away and left you a prisoner there. I should have done something—tried to help you somehow…” I trailed off miserably.

Gandalf brandished his pipe at me, waving my words away with a cloud of smoke. “Now, now, I hardly expected you to whisk me away from Orthanc. Indeed, I must admit your dramatic flight from the tower caught me entirely off guard. You appeared to me a naïve, frightened child, and for that I dismissed your warnings and your counsel. Though the evidence was under my own nose, I did not want to believe it of Saruman.” The wizard sighed again, resting his elbows on his knees. “Can you forgive an old man his mistake?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said uncomfortably. “Really, I understand. And it’s not like there was much you could have done to stop Saruman by then—he’d been obsessing over this stuff from my world for years, right?”

“Hmph.” Gandalf furrowed his brows and released a ring of smoke into the evening air.

I tore my eyes away from the smoke ring, which had begun spinning in circles over our heads. “How did you get away from Saruman?”

He shrugged evasively. “It is quite a tale. One I am certain you will hear before long.”

“Well, were you at least able to get my book away from him?” I asked. “Did he read any more of it? Do you have it with you now?”

“I was unable to wrest it from him. Perhaps if I had believed your word of warning from the beginning…” Gandalf took a long drag on his pipe and stared out into the darkness.

“You mean he still has it?” I gasped.

“I did not say that,” he continued. “I could not take it from his grasp, so—much as I wished to preserve the book—I burned it. It fell to ashes in his hands.”

“Oh!” I let out a shaky breath, but couldn’t quite feel relieved. _So Saruman can’t keep telling the future…but neither can we._ “Nathan’s going to kill me,” I muttered. At a questioning look from Gandalf, I added, “That book belonged to my friend. He lent it to me. It was one of his favorite stories.” It felt like years ago—centuries, lifetimes. “I really wish I’d read it now,” I said around a sudden lump in my throat. “Or at least paid more attention to the movie.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” the wizard sighed. “And perhaps it is for the best that we do not have it. Given Saruman’s actions, as well as your presence in Middle Earth, it is no longer an accurate account, in any case.”

“But I’m sure it still would have helped. And I remember so little of what happens.”

“Your limited foresight does not worry me overmuch,” Gandalf said. “I am far more concerned with what Saruman managed to learn before I destroyed the book.”

“He skimmed the first chapter or two, at least,” I said. “He knew the story had something to do with hobbits. And he kept flipping through it while I was talking to you—I don’t know how much else he saw.”

“Yes, that certainly does not bode well for us. I have spent every day since my escape trying to make sure our brave Mr. Baggins reaches Rivendell in one piece, though his fate may be out of my hands now. I assume you know of Frodo’s part in this tale?” he added.

I nodded anxiously. “So does this mean he’s still okay? Will he get to Rivendell soon?”

“Hmph! I can hardly answer those questions, Miss Smith,” Gandalf snorted, and I flushed. “Like the rest of us, you will simply have to wait and see.”

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait that long.

“You will never guess what I heard from Mistress Halthel!” Amarien told me three days later as she piled clean bedsheets into the basket in my arms. I couldn’t see her over the mountain of laundry, but she was bouncing on the balls of her feet giddily, as she always did when she had gossip to share.

“She’s giving me a promotion?”

“ _Goodness_ , no!” Amarien cried, laughing so heartily that I scowled. “She told me that four hobbits have arrived in Rivendell. Can you believe it? Lady Arwen brought one of them to the valley on horseback last night, and was followed this morning by Estel and three other hobbits—oh, _Bee!_ ” Amarien cried as I dropped the laundry basket onto our shoes.

“Sorry,” I stammered, hurrying to pick everything up. “The hobbits are really here?”

Amarien looked startled at my panic. “Do you know them?”

“I…not personally, no,” I said hesitantly. “But I’ve heard of them. And I was really worried they’d run into trouble on their way here.”

“Oh, but I had not finished—they _did_ run into trouble of some sort, it seems. One of them is grievously wounded, according to one of the aides in the infirmary. Lord Elrond himself is tending to his injuries even now.”

“What?” I dropped the basket again. _Was that Frodo? It must be, hadn’t he been injured in the movie?_

“Oh, please _do_ focus,” Amarien sighed, forcing the basket into my hands again and piling in the linens in a huff. “I was going to add that Mistress Halthel has asked us to prepare rooms for them. After we clean the guest quarters, make their beds and draw baths for them, I’m certain you can visit your injured hobbit.”

My shoulders sagged. “Fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to panic, I just…”

“I believe I understand,” she whispered eagerly as we carried the bedsheets to the empty guest quarters. She looked around surreptitiously, but the hallway was empty. “You have the gift of foresight!”

It took everything I had not to drop the laundry basket again. _“What?”_

“Oh, you need not hide it from me, it is obvious! Often you seem to know things you should not,” Amarien went on. “How else would you know of these hobbits, or that they were journeying to Imladris? And for weeks you have talked of Gandalf with such familiarity, though according to your tale you barely spoke with him in Isengard at all.”

I hesitated. Elrond had asked me not to talk about the books or movies, and so far I’d kept my word—but apparently I wasn’t half as sneaky as I thought. “I wouldn’t call it foresight,” I said uncomfortably. “I can’t see the future, I just…know a _few_ things, here and there, that _might_ happen…”

“Is that not foresight?”

“No,” I said stubbornly as we entered a guest room. I plopped my basket down on one of the unmade beds and began sorting through the bedsheets.

“Hello!”

I jumped and spun around, smacking the speaker in the face with a blanket.

“Steady, miss!” It was a hobbit, with curly brown hair and amusement clear on his round face.

“Oh—sorry!” I exclaimed, trying not to stare. “You startled me.”

“Ah, excellent! Clean, soft blankets!” A second hobbit leapt up and rummaged through my basket delightedly. “Is there anything better after spending weeks in the wilderness?”

“A hot bath, maybe,” the other said hopefully, glancing at me and Amarien.

The elf smiled. “Never fear, master hobbits, I’ll fetch hot water for your baths. Bee, do finish making the beds, will you?”

I obeyed as the two hobbits explored their room. “I take it y’all like it here so far?”

One of them, who’d been teetering halfway out the open window to see the view, scrambled back inside. “Of course! It’s really something to see the elves after all this time. I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck, by the way. You can call me Merry.”

“Peregrin Took,” piped up the other hobbit. “That’s Pippin to you.”

“Pleased to meet y’all,” I said eagerly. “I’m Beatrice—Bee is fine.”

“What’s y’all?” Pippin said. “Is that an elf thing?”

“Course not, Pip, she’s not an elf. Must be a Big People thing.”

I opened my mouth to explain, but Pippin chimed in again. “What’re you doing in Rivendell anyway? Didn’t think there’d be anybody but elves here.”

“Oh, well—probably the same thing you’re doing here,” I said hesitantly, not looking forward to the questions that inevitably would follow the story of my arrival.

“You mean you were escaping from Black Riders too?” Pippin gasped.

Merry snorted. “Of course not, Pip, they were after _us,_ not her.”

“No, I just meant—I was in trouble, and took refuge here,” I explained. I set the newly fluffed pillows on the beds and stepped back. “Anyway, there you go—” I began, but was cut off as the hobbits leapt onto their beds with exaggerated yawns.

“Hey, Bee, how many breakfasts have they got here?” Pippin said, bouncing on the mattress. “I’m starving.”

“However many you like,” I laughed. “I can bring y’all some plates from the kitchen if you want.”

“We can get our own meals soon,” Merry replied. “But maybe you could bring some tea to Sam? We told him we’d get our rooms sorted out, but he’s still with Frodo—refused to leave the infirmary, bless him, even after Lord Elrond snapped at us all to give him some space.”

“Oh, of course! Should I bring anything for Frodo too, or is he, um…”

“He’s not awake,” Merry said, scuffing his bare heels on the floor. “He was in a bad way when we got here.”

“But that elf lord will fix him up, won’t he?” Pippin added anxiously. “He looked so important—I’m sure he’s got all kinds of magic that’ll put Frodo right in no time.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said lamely, wishing I could offer them more comfort.

With a wave goodbye, I hastened to the kitchens for a pot of tea. Knowing hobbits, I also stacked a plate full of as much food as I could carry, and to my immense delight, I managed to make it to the infirmary without spilling anything. _Ha! Halthel really_ should _give me a promotion._

The infirmary doors were shut, but a hobbit was curled up on a bench nearby, wearing travel-stained clothes and rubbing at his eyes. “Miss?” he said thickly, and yawned. “Oh, if you’ve brought that tray for Mr. Bilbo, I’m afraid he’s asleep.” He sat up and gestured to a chair near a window, where the older hobbit was snoring softly.

“Actually, Merry and Pippin thought you could use some tea,” I said, offering him the tray. “You’re Sam, right?”

He nodded. “Thank you, miss, that’s mighty kind of you.”

“You can call just me Bee. I’m a maid here, no need for the ‘miss.’ Why’re you and Bilbo resting out here in the hallway?”

“That lord Elrond made us wait outside,” he said anxiously. “Said he couldn’t heal Mr. Frodo with all of us hanging about, but I can’t just leave him all alone…” He trailed off, looking miserable, and turned to the tray of food. “Oh, why, these cakes are lovely, Miss Bee. They’re just like the ones back home.”

“Right? Bilbo told me he used to eat these in the Shire, and he gave the recipe to the cooks here when he arrived.” Sam’s face softened at the mention of home, his hands twisting in his lap. “Could you tell me more about the Shire?” I added.

He smiled shyly and obliged. Just like that, the next hour was filled with tales of hobbits—gardening misadventures, gossip from local pubs, disputes between neighbors. I was entranced by the aching normalcy of it all, and it seemed cathartic to Sam; the weary, drawn look in his eyes faded slightly, though he kept glancing back to the infirmary door and wringing his hands.

“Beggin’ your pardon for saying so, Miss, but you’re not at all what I expected from the Big Folk,” Sam said after a while. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in Shire talk, and all.”

“Oh, no, I’ve wanted to go to the Shire since I was a little kid,” I said earnestly, and Sam positively beamed. “I grew up hearing about Bilbo’s adventures and thought the Shire sounded lovely. But haven’t you met any other humans before?” 

He shrugged. “Only a couple, in Bree. And Strider, of course. But he’s…” Sam scratched his head. “Well, there’s Strider and there’s other Men, if you follow me.”

“I presume that was a compliment,” interrupted a voice, and we spun around to see a man approaching us, grinning good-naturedly.

“Oh!” Sam’s ears turned beet red. “I didn’t mean—of course it was a compliment, Strider. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I promise!”

The man laughed and sat down on Sam’s other side. “Calm yourself, Sam, I know you meant no ill. I am only glad to see you looking in higher spirits.” He turned to me, and I looked down at my shoes, suddenly flustered. I hadn’t seen a human since June, and the sight of rounded ears and a beard caught me off guard. “You must be the mortal woman Lord Elrond has told me about,” Strider said. “Beatrice, is it?”

“Oh! Yeah, that’s me.” I shook his hand, awkwardly as ever. “And you’re Strider,” I said stupidly. “Uh, don’t you have another name, though? Oregon, or something—”

“Some know me as Aragorn,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Though most in Rivendell call me Estel.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “My friend Amarien mentioned an Estel before—I didn’t know that was you.”

“Ah, how is Amarien?” he laughed. “Still as much a gossip as ever, I presume?”

“No, of course not,” I said loyally. Strider’s eyebrow rose higher, and I coughed. “How do you know her, anyway?”

“Had she not told you? I was raised in Rivendell.”

“Were you really?” Sam asked, looking at Strider in awe. “To think, you’ve spent so much time around elves!”

“I should be happy to tell you all about it, Sam,” Strider said, turning a stern eye on the hobbit, “but I believe a hot bath and some rest are in order for you first. You must take care of yourself; sleeping on a stone bench will not make Frodo heal any faster.”

Sam shuffled his feet. “I know, Strider, but I can’t leave him.” His voice was small. “What if he needs me?”

Something in my heart twisted painfully. “What if I took you to see the room that’s prepared for you?” I asked. “You can change clothes and get settled in, and then come right back if you want.”

“I…alright then,” he said anxiously. “Just for a bit.”

“Besides, you’ll love your room,” I added heartily, in a weak attempt to cheer him up. “The guest rooms have lovely balconies, and you’ll get clean clothes and a hot bath, and everything.”

Waving goodbye to Strider, I guided Sam to the guest rooms. He wavered a bit on his feet, and I realized belatedly how exhausted he must have been all morning.

“Sam!” Pippin and Merry ambushed us as we entered the guests’ quarters. “Glad to see you’re alright,” Merry said. “Now let’s get you cleaned up, you stink.”

“Thank you kindly for the tea and cakes, Miss Bee,” Sam called with a wave as his friends ushered him away.

The bedroom door slammed shut and I sighed wearily.

“Beatrice Smith!” Amarien’s sharp voice cut through the short-lived silence. “Where have you been?”

“What?” I jumped. Amarien never called me by my full name anymore, not unless she was really furious—

“Loafing about and leaving me to keep working all by myself, eh?” She tapped her foot on the ground, an alarmingly Halthel-like expression on her face.

I gulped. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. I was talking to Sam about the Shire, and…”

“Goodness knows you haven’t done that enough with Bilbo,” she said, though her face softened a bit.

“I’m sorry—he just looked so miserable, I wanted to cheer him up—”

“Oh, very well,” she relented, rolling her eyes. “Only take care not to abandon me again, for we have a great deal more to do. I fear we shall even have to postpone our studies in the library for a time.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “I was eavesdropping on Lanion and some other guards near the kitchens—”

“Strider was right,” I snorted. “You really are a gossip.”

“Ah, so you have met Estel?” Amarien rolled her eyes. “The stories I could tell you about _him,_ now—particularly regarding a certain Lady, who I’m certain will be quite thrilled that he has returned to Imladris…”

“Oooh, who?” I asked, laughing. I suspected he’d had a love interest in the movie, but couldn’t remember the details.

“It is not my place to say,” she said airily, eyeing the frustration on my face with deep satisfaction. “If your foresight has not seen fit to inform you—”

“Oh, come on—”

“In any case,” she plowed on, waving my protests away with a graceful hand, “I heard the guards saying that they’d spotted groups of travelers approaching the valley. They shall arrive within days, and there will be many rooms to prepare—two dozen at least, I should say. I suppose your foresight did not inform you of _that,_ eh?”

_Could that be all the members of the Fellowship?_ I tried to hide an eager grin. “I…no, of course not.”

“Oh, Bee,” Amarien ruffled my hair fondly. “You are a terrible liar.”

True to Amarien’s word, guests began to trail into the valley the very next day. Somehow she was always the first to hear who each visitor was and where they had come from—the names of Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain made me squeak with excitement, but I was too busy sweeping floors and washing and ironing clothes to pester the guests about stories from _The Hobbit_ or ask for news about Radagast.

Instead, I settled for pestering Amarien. “Who are they?” I hissed to her, poking my head around a marble pillar at a group of newcomers.

“A few of the Mirkwood elves, of course! I overheard them talking earlier—the one with brown hair there is Rhosgir, one of the royal guards, and—”

“A royal guard? What’s he doing here?”

Amarien rolled her eyes. “Guarding royalty, of course.” At my confused look, she added, “ _That_ one to his right. Prince Legolas, the son of the Elvenking.”

“I didn’t know he was a _prince!_ ” I exclaimed, so loudly that Amarien clapped a hand over my mouth and dragged me back behind the pillar. _Had that been in the movie?_

“You know him, then?”

“No—I’ve just, uh, heard of him—”

“Ah, your foresight at work, I suppose,” she said knowingly. I elbowed her in the ribs, and she dissolved into silent giggles. “He is frightfully handsome, is he not?”

“No kidding.” I pressed my fist to my mouth to fight back a laugh—the movies really didn’t do the elves justice at all. “Eat your heart out, Orlando Bloom.”

“What _nonsense_ you speak sometimes,” Amarien huffed, dragging me away before the royal guards spotted us.

Exhausted from our work, we collapsed into seats in the dining hall for a late dinner. “So, what do you know about them?” I asked Amarien, jabbing my fork in the direction of a group of dwarves, who were finishing their meal at the far end of the room.

“Ugh. Do not ask me about dwarves now—I shall lose my appetite.”

I turned to her in surprise. “What? What’s wrong with them?”

“How can you say such things?” Amarien cried. “Ah, but then you are mortal, and have never met a dwarf.”

“Have you?”

She hesitated. “I do not need to meet them to know of the centuries of wrongs they have committed against our people. They are greedy and uncouth.”

“Well, what do you know about _them_ in particular? They’re from the Lonely Mountain, right?”

“Oh, very well—yes, they are. That old one there, with the gray beard, is Gloin, who—”

“Went with Bilbo to the Lonely Mountain!” I cried.

“Indeed. I _suppose_ he must not be as terrible as the rest of them, if our dear Bilbo thinks fondly of him,” she said, staring coldly at the dwarves. “And to his left there is his son, Gimli. Then the one sitting across from them, with the short beard, you see? According to Lhosdess, that is the Lady Ivaldi—did you know female dwarves have beards? Quite unpleasant, I thought, but then I suppose it is hardly their fault. And I must admit their armor is exquisitely made—for dwarves, that is. I’m certain our craftsmen could have made much more beautiful pieces—Are you listening to me, Bee?”

“Huh?” I jumped out of my reverie. _Gimli is here! Another member of the Fellowship!_

“Do not tell me it is your foresight again,” she said impatiently.

My mouth twitched. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Bee!”

With a laugh, I turned back to my meal, leaving Amarien to glare at the dwarves.

The next days passed in a flurry of washing linens, sweeping floors, ironing clothes, re-stuffing pillows, and spying on guests. On yet another trip to the laundry rooms, a curly head barreled into me, scattering clothes on the ground.

“So sorry, Bee!” Pippin cried, leaping back on his feet. “Wish I could stay to help—have to go—he’s awake!”

“What?” I exclaimed, but the hobbit had already disappeared down the hall. Merry was only seconds behind, pausing only to give me a beaming grin before running after Pippin with a whoop of joy.

Mystified, I bent to gather up the laundry. _I just ironed these dresses, damn it!_ Maybe no one would notice if they were wrinkled.

After a moment faint footsteps approached. “Ah, I see the hobbits have come this way, leaving quite the trail of destruction in their wake.”

“Lord Elrond!” I jumped to my feet. “Sorry for the mess.”

“It is no matter. Have the hobbits passed on the good news, then?”

I shook my head. “They were in too much of a hurry to explain.”

“Well then, allow me to be the bearer of good tidings: our dear Frodo Baggins has been healed. He just awoke this morning.”

“Really?” My shoulders slumped in relief. _Following the movie so far, thank goodness._ “Sam must be thrilled.”

“Indeed he is,” he said with a laugh. “And now that Frodo is well, I shall hold a meeting tomorrow—”

“The Council?” I blurted eagerly.

“I would like for you to attend this meeting, that our guests might understand Saruman’s actions of late. _However,_ ” he added, and I withered under his icy stare, “you must take caution to reveal none of your foresight granted by the book from your homeland. Am I clear?”

I scuffed my shoes on the floor. “Crystal, sir. I mean—my lord.”

Elrond chuckled. “Very good.”

Gathering up the spilled clothes, I hurried away to the laundry rooms, beaming. I was going to attend the Council!

Three loads of laundry later and my spirits were sagging somewhat. I dabbed at my forehead with my apron—which was irreparably splattered with ink from my attempts to write with a quill in the library—when I spotted someone wandering the halls, staring wide-eyed at the view from the arched windows. Another newcomer, and judging by the mud splattering his boots and cloak, he must have only just arrived. 

“Hey, you’re human!” I exclaimed, catching sight of his rounded ears.

The man turned to me in surprise. “As are you,” he said slowly, looking rather taken aback. I realized belatedly that maidservants probably weren’t supposed to yell at guests. “I had little expected to find Menfolk in this valley. Are there are others here?”

“Oh, just one, a guy named Strider.”

“Strider?” The man wrinkled his nose. “A strange name. Is he a servant as well?”

“No, no, he’s um—” I knew he was someone really important, but I couldn’t remember. “He grew up here,” I said instead.

“And you did not?”

“No, I’m a guest, I’ve been in Rivendell since July.”

“Then Imladris often employs Menfolk as servants,” he said, clearly looking for an explanation.

I shrugged apologetically. “Not that I know of.”

The man’s face was growing more and more confused. After a moment he sighed and dragged a hand down his face, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “Never mind. Perhaps you might point me in the direction of the upper guest quarters. A room awaits me, according to your housekeeper, though I seem to have gotten lost.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s like a maze here,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“You need not trouble yourself,” he said quickly, and I got the sense he was trying to get rid of me. “I would not wish to interrupt your work; simply point me in the right direction.”

“Nah, you’ll just get lost again. Besides, I need a break from laundry.” Abandoning my basket on a nearby bench, I led him down the hall. “I’m Beatrice, by the way,” I said, offering him my hand. He stared at it for a moment, nonplussed, and I dropped my arm awkwardly, feeling heat rise in my face. “Sorry—people don’t shake hands where you’re from, I guess?”

“Men of equal rank may shake hands with one another,” he replied, looking more baffled than ever. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor,” he added.

_I knew it!_ I heard Elrond’s warning in my head and tried to look innocent— _don’t let him know you have foresight, don’t let him know, don’t let him know—_ “Um…you just got here, right?” I said, desperately searching for a safe topic. “Where are you from?”

“I have ridden from Minas Tirith.”

“Oh! I’ve heard a lot about Minas Tirith,” I said excitedly. “Especially the library.”

“The library?” he repeated, looking baffled.

“Yes—Lord Elrond said it was the largest one in Middle Earth.”

“He is not wrong,” Boromir said, now studying me with deep confusion. “Though of all the White City’s charms, its library is not the first to come to my mind.”

“Well, I guess I don’t know much about Minas Tirith besides that. It’s in Gondor, right?” I asked, trying to remember the maps Amarien had translated for me in Elrond’s study.

“Yes.” From the almost insulted look on Boromir’s face, it must have been a pretty stupid question.

Picking awkwardly at the lace on my sleeve, I fell silent. “Oh, look! Here’s the guest rooms,” I exclaimed at last, rounding a corner. _Thank God._ “Let’s see—all the rooms are taken except the one with the open door there; that one should be yours. Enjoy your stay,” I added awkwardly, before dashing off.

Awkward as the meeting had been, I grinned, counting on my fingers. _Gandalf, the four hobbits, Legolas, Gimli…The whole Fellowship is here!_

Humming a triumphant tune, I returned to my abandoned laundry and resumed my work. No matter what warnings Elrond gave me, having foresight was fun.


	15. And Then There Were Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Finally we get to the actual tenth walker part of the story—I know the whole idea is a bit iffy for Tolkien purists no matter what, but I tried to give it enough in-universe reasoning to back it up, despite the kind of…absurd situation Bee is in. I also did NOT mean for this chapter to be such a behemoth, so apologies in advance. I don't love how it turned out, but am really looking forward to what's coming next- it's gonna be great, y'all.

I arrived at the Council early. Taking a seat on the empty stone benches, I kicked at the flagstones, twisting the trailing lace on my dress sleeves. I wasn’t _nervous_ , exactly; but there was something heavy hanging in the air, a tension that I couldn’t describe. I knew this was a turning point in the book and the movie, and I only wished that I could remember more of it.

Something rustled in the bushes behind my bench. “Hello?” I said warily.

“Shh _,_ Pip,” a voice hissed.

“ _You_ shh!”

“ _Me?_ You’re the one who—”

“Pippin?” I whispered. “Merry? What are y’all doing back there?” I squinted into the bushes. The hobbits were hidden surprisingly well, though I did spot a hairy foot sticking out of the leaves.

“Hi, Bee,” Merry said brightly, poking his head out of the branches.

“Sam’s here too,” Pippin blurted out.

“’llo, Miss.” Sam’s voice was muffled from deep within the greenery. Pippin seemed to be sitting on him.

“How many of y’all are hiding back there?” I exclaimed.

“Just us three,” Merry said. “We can’t _all_ be lucky enough to be invited to a secret C—”

“ _Shh!”_

Footsteps approached, and I spun back around to see the rest of the circle slowly filling up. With heavy steps, the group of dwarves sat down on my left. One of them, with a short brown beard, elbowed me in the side by way of greeting. “We women have to stick together, eh? Ivaldi, at your service.”

“Oh—yeah, I agree,” I said, remembering Amarien’s words about dwarf women. Other than a slighter higher voice and cropped beard, it was difficult to tell. “Beatrice, at your service, ma’am.”

“Oho, this one’s very polite!” Ivaldi laughed, resting her palms on the hilt of an intricately carved axe. “Well met, lass. This is my cousin Gloin, and his son Gimli.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the two dwarves beside her, and we greeted each other with a chorus of _at your services_. I opened my mouth to ask them what the Lonely Mountain was like, but before I could, the Mirkwood elves soon lighted on my other side, shooting cold glares at the dwarves. “Hmph. Pay them no attention, lass,” Gimli told me, promptly ignoring his own advice and leaning behind me to scowl at them.

I was so caught up in watching the two groups glare at one another that I almost didn’t notice as Elrond stood and greeted us.

As he spoke, his voice grave and quiet, I shivered. It had been easy, sitting in the cozy gardens and warm halls of Rivendell, to forget about the seriousness of the Council, to pretend that a place called _Mordor_ didn’t exist at all.

“Bring forth the Ring, Frodo,” Elrond said at last. As one, the Council turned to stare at the hobbit, who got to his feet nervously, still thin and pale from his injury, and set the Ring on a stone plinth for us all to see.

I stared. _That_ was the Ring? It looked so…normal. Just a little circle of gold, catching the morning sunlight ever so slightly. It could have been an ordinary wedding band. Admittedly, it _was_ beautiful, the way the sunlight flickered like fire along its surface. I’d never seen such a pure shade of gold, deep and rich and shining. And to think, it had been right here in Rivendell for days now! _Would it be warm to the touch?_

Ivaldi elbowed me in the ribs, hard enough to make my eyes water. I realized I had been leaning forward, half out of my seat. With difficulty, I tore my eyes away from the Ring and glanced around self-consciously. Boromir had stood and begun speaking, brash and self-assured, and I forced myself to pay attention. Now _this_ I vaguely remembered from the movie. He wanted to use the Ring, didn’t he?

I listened eagerly as others broke in—Legolas, Strider, Gandalf, Gloin—I had been so swept up in _who_ the new guests in Rivendell were that I hadn’t given much thought to _why_ they were here. Oh, why hadn’t I thought to bring a piece of paper to jot down notes?

The names of Elendil, Gil-galad, Isildur, Smeagol, and a thousand others were blurring together in my mind as the guests traced the history of the Ring piece by piece, from when it was forged to when it was picked up by Bilbo in the dark of Goblin Town, just like I’d read about as a little kid.

At last, Gandalf stood and recounted his journey to Isengard, the discovery of Saruman’s betrayal, and—

“Eagles?” I interrupted eagerly. I wanted to kick myself for forgetting that part of the movie. “ _That’s_ how you escaped?” _Were they the same eagles from the end of The Hobbit?_

I winced as dozens of eyes fell upon me. “Not quite as tidy a solution as yours, I grant you,” the wizard said solemnly, tipping his hat in my direction. “But I flatter myself that I made the best of it.”

“What do you mean, Gandalf?” interrupted Strider. “Was Beatrice somehow involved in your escape?”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. Beatrice, if you will…”

“Oh—right,” I stammered, standing up reluctantly. Looking mostly at Bilbo, whose kind gaze was the most familiar and least intimidating among them, I explained my arrival in Middle Earth and Saruman’s intentions with my world. My description of the wizard’s storerooms of weapons elicited a chorus of horrified interruptions, and I struggled to explain the concept of bombs, guns, and tanks to the others.

“So the Enemy now has access to these terrible machines?” Ivaldi said, staring at me in disbelief. Her friendly demeanor had turned to wariness, as though I might cast a magic spell and blow them all up at any moment.

“Yes, but Saruman doesn’t know how to use most of them,” I said.

“Can all this be true, Gandalf?” cried one of the Mirkwood elves. “It seems far-fetched, to say the least.” I scowled at him.

“All too true, I am afraid,” the wizard replied gravely.

“But are you certain that only Saruman has access to such weaponry?” Boromir cut in, eyeing me suspiciously. “I have reason to believe that this influence of your homeland has extended far beyond Isengard.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“On my journey to Imladris,” he explained, “I passed through the empty wilderness north of Dunland. One morning, the sunlight glinted strangely on the grass in the distance, and as I approached, my horse reared back, unwilling to come nearer. I dismounted and explored, despite my misgivings, and saw a wreckage of metal nearly the size of a cottage, with enormous blades like sword points speared into the earth. Surrounding it was a spray of rocks and dirt, as though the thing had rent its way onto the hilltop from deep underground. What could this nightmarish machinery be but one of your people’s weapons? And how could its appearance hundreds of miles from Isengard be connected with Saruman?”

“Oh, I can explain that, actually,” I interrupted, suddenly understanding. “That was me.”

Boromir stared at me blankly. “You?”

“That’s how I escaped from Isengard. Saruman had a helicopter—a flying machine—in his storerooms, and I kind of…stole it and crash-landed it in the wilderness. That’s what you saw north of Dunland.”

The silence that followed that statement went on so long that I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from bursting into nervous laughter. Bilbo, however, chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “A tidy solution indeed, dear Bee.”

“You cannot mean to say that metal... _thing_ took you nearly a hundred leagues from Isengard!” Boromir exclaimed.

“More or less,” I said, wondering exactly how far a league was.

“I witnessed her escape myself. I can corroborate her story, strange a tale as it may seem,” Gandalf added.

“Of course,” the man replied faintly, clearly trying to equate the sloppy maidservant he’d met yesterday with the flying witch sitting in the Council meeting. “But can you not see, this changes everything! If Saruman has access to magic such as this, the Enemy could appear on our doorstep in a matter of hours!”

“It’s not _magic_ , and he doesn’t,” I said. “That was his only flying machine.”

“You are certain of this?” Gimli broke in next to me. “Can he not create another?”

“No, he definitely can’t manufacture them. They need all kinds of things he doesn’t have access to, refined metals and fuel and whatnot. It’s possible he could get more from my world, I guess, but he didn’t seem to have much control over what he brought over.”

“Whether or not Saruman gains control of these devices, it lends a renewed urgency to our situation,” Elrond said. “While we possess the Ring, we cannot guarantee its safety from Enemy hands for long. The question, then, remains: what are we to do with it?”

I sat back down as the other continued their debate. One of the elves suggested throwing the Ring into the sea; another wanted to give it to someone named Tom Bombadil; Boromir made an impassioned case for using the Ring against Mordor in battle.

I wanted to shout at them all. As entertaining as my foresight had been in the past, now it just made me impatient—I knew how this Council would end, after all, even if I knew almost nothing that happened after.

“The Ring must be destroyed.”

I let out a sigh of relief as Elrond’s dire words washed over the group, though the discussion didn’t end there. Suddenly the entire group was shouting at one another, and I found myself trapped between the dwarves and elves hurling insults at one another. In the resulting clamor, I almost missed Frodo’s voice, quiet but self-assured, offering to take the burden upon himself—just as I knew he would.

The others fell silent in shock, which was broken only when several of the others volunteered to join Frodo. The hobbit looked smaller than ever among the other Council members, and Bilbo’s face was twisted with a mixture of worry and excitement.

“Hey! We’re coming too!” With a shout, the hobbits concealed in the bushes behind me leapt out indignantly, nearly knocking me sideways as they clambered to stand by Frodo’s side.

I’d only half-watched this part of the movie, despite Nathan’s insistence, absorbed instead with looking up the sheet music for the violin score that had been swelling dramatically as the Fellowship formed on screen. Now the reality of the moment felt like a slap in the face—I _knew_ these people, had spoken to them, even befriended some of them already—and now they were going to run off and risk their lives on a quest that was becoming all too real.

Maybe it was a good thing I was running out of foresight.

“I shall determine the Ringbearer’s remaining companions in the coming days,” Elrond said at last, quieting down the Council members with a tired wave of his hand.

Dismissed, the rest of the group leapt up, arguing and talking over one another about what had just taken place. I listened to their discussion for a while, still overwhelmed by thoughts of foresight and danger, and finally I stood up to leave.

“Bee!” Suddenly I was accosted by Merry and Pippin. “You didn’t tell us you had _magic!”_ Pippin accused, crossing his arms.

“That’s because I don’t!”

“Oh, no sense in lying about it now,” Merry said. “The cat’s out of the bag. Now tell us more about those weapons you stole from Saruman, go on!”

“No, the flying machine first!” Pippin interrupted. “How high up did it go? And what did Boromir mean that it had blades?”

Smiling despite myself, I gave in and tried to explain. Despite my limited knowledge of anything technology-related, our conversation drew a small crowd before long, the others chiming in with bewildered questions about my world as cars, skyscrapers, highways, and telephones all took vague shape in their stunned eyes.

It was late afternoon by the time I managed to escape, and I returned to my room exhausted and bitterly homesick. How long had it been since I had driven a car, or seen the sun glinting white off the glass windows of a skyscraper, or heard the roar of an airplane flying overhead?

_I had to get home._

Slowly, a plan began to take shape in my mind. Grabbing a quill and some parchment I’d hoarded from Elrond’s library, I did what I always did to unclutter my thoughts—I began to take notes.

“Lord Elrond, do you have a minute?” I faltered in the doorway to his study. The sun had only just risen, but already a group of people stood around Elrond’s desk, arguing vehemently—Strider, Gandalf, and Boromir among them. Pippin was trying to wedge himself into their circle, looking more furious than I’d ever seen him.

The elf lord glanced up at me and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as the others continued bickering. “Beatrice, now is not a good time. We have much to discuss regarding the Council.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I’d been up all night writing an elaborate pros and cons list, and had finally outlined my plan. “I’d like to join the Fellowship.”

Elrond sighed resignedly, but didn’t look surprised. The others, however, broke off their conversation to stare at me. “I rather suspected you would ask this of me,” Elrond replied. “But you must know this will be no easy journey.”

“Of course not,” I said. “But if y’all run into Saruman, you’ll need somebody who can recognize his weapons.”

“You are no expert in your homeland’s weaponry, as you yourself have attested,” he reminded me.

“It’s better than nothing. I mean, I may not know how to shoot a gun, but I’m the only other person in Middle Earth who knows what guns can do, and what they look like.”

“What’s a gun?” Pippin broke in.

I gestured emphatically. “See?”

“You cannot be considering this, Elrond,” snapped an elf I didn’t know. “Already this Company will include three hobbits—”

“ _Four_ hobbits!” Pippin snapped. “I’m going, no matter what you say—”

“—and now you wish to include a defenseless girl?” the elf went on. “You cannot permit so many weak links within its ranks, not if we are to protect the Ringbearer.”

“Peace, Glorfindel,” Elrond said wearily.

“She is hardly defenseless,” Gandalf added dryly, “given that she escaped from Saruman when I myself could not.”

“Despite my better judgment, I must agree with Mithrandir,” Boromir said, folding his arms. “You did not see the wreckage of that flying contraption, master elf. Perhaps, given the circumstances, a sorceress would be a welcome addition to the Fellowship.”

“Oh—thank you,” I said, taken aback. “But I’m _not_ a sorceress. I can’t, you know, do magic or anything.” Boromir raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn’t reply.

“Magic or no, Glorfindel is not wrong,” Strider cut in. “The land of shadow is hardly a fit place for a young woman.”

I scowled, trying to rein in a wave of feminist rage. “From what y’all said at the Council, it’s hardly a fit place for _anyone,_ is it? Besides, I don’t want to go all the way to Mordor.” I’d anticipated something like this, jotting down their likely protests and potential counter-arguments until my hands were irreparably stained with ink. “If y’all are going to Mordor, that’ll take you close to Gondor, won’t it? Lord Elrond, you told me all about the library in Minas Tirith—that it’s the largest one in Middle Earth. I might be able to find information there about how to get home!”

“Perhaps you might,” Elrond said, “in which case you would accompany Boromir, who also intends to travel only as far as the White City. But be that as it may, we must keep this Fellowship small, or all secrecy will be lost. Now, perhaps if Beatrice were to join the Company, and Pippin remained behind—”

“No!” Pippin and I cried at the same time.

“Lord Elrond, Pippin has to go!” I exclaimed. “He…he _has_ to,” I said again, hoping Elrond understood my meaning— _this was in the story, he can’t stay behind, and definitely not for my sake!_

Elrond shook his head. “As he is the youngest of the hobbits, the thought makes me uneasy. Indeed, I am half of Glorfindel’s opinion that neither of you should go, and that the ninth and final member shall be a warrior of Imladris, who can offer better protection for the Ringbearer.”

“Why nine?” I asked Pippin in an undertone as the others continued to argue.

He shrugged. “Elrond said there should be nine of us, to match the nine Black Riders.”

“Why not nine people to protect the Ringbearer?” I said. “Ten in total, but they still get all that nice, juicy symbolism.”

Pippin snorted. “They can tell themselves what they like, as long as they let me come along.”

“I believe the matter is out of your hands now,” Gandalf interjected, overhearing us. “You have both presented your cases—now, off with you.”

“Gandalf is in quite a mood this morning, eh?” Pippin muttered sourly as we allowed ourselves to be shooed out of the room. “Well, no sense hanging about where we’re not wanted.”

With a wave, he headed toward the dining hall for second breakfast. I moved to follow him, but my stomach was in knots and I didn’t think I could eat.

Halfway to the dining hall, a hand grabbed my arm. “Bee!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” I cried, glaring at Amarien.

“I do not _sneak,_ ” she said primly, wrinkling her nose. “Tis not my fault your mortal ears cannot hear my footsteps. Now then, come with me!”

“Where?” I asked helplessly, already being dragged down the hall.

“Why, to spy on Lord Elrond, of course. Do you not wish to know what he and the others are saying about you and the Fellowship?”

I gaped at her. “How do you know about the Fellowship?” I said. “And how’d you know I wanted to join?”

She laughed as she led me outdoors, where we huddled under one of the high windows outside Elrond’s study. “You left your notes strewn about your room this morning. You should not have written in Westron if you did not want me to read them,” she added in a sing-song voice, and I scowled at her. “And as for the Fellowship, I listened in on the entire Council meeting, of course.”

_I should’ve known._ “You weren’t hiding in the bushes with the hobbits, were you?”

“Of course not. I was the one who told them to hide there. It got them out of _my_ hiding place behind a pillar in the courtyard—much more comfortable. Now shh!” 

We fell silent, and I strained my ears. “The window’s not even open,” I complained. “I can’t hear a thing.”

Amarien rolled her eyes. “You cannot? Oh, very well.” She screwed up her face and listened. “Let me see, Lord Glorfindel is making his case to join the Fellowship…goodness, but he is handsome, eh? I would not mind going on a quest with _him_ in the slightest. That shining hair, and have you ever seen such _cheekbones—_ ”

“Focus, will you?” I hissed.

“Oh, you are no fun at all. There now, Estel is arguing that Pippin should come along instead…and Lord Elrond agrees with him! Oh, Pippin will be pleased. Now he is saying that as long as you do not wish to travel to the land of shadow, he sees no reason you should not come too—but how I should miss you if you leave Imladris…I suppose there is no use in my asking to come with you. Although it might be worth it, if only to see the look on Lhosdess’s face when I tell her the news—”

“ _Amarien_ —”

“Oh yes, sorry. Hmm, let me see, they are saying that as long as you agree to go no farther than Minas Tirith, and learn to use a sword to defend yourself on the journey, then you shall become the tenth member of the Fellowship!”

“Yes!” I cried, leaping to my feet and punching the air.

After a moment, Gandalf’s head poked out of the study window. “I take it you have heard the good news, Beatrice,” he said dryly.

“Oh—sorry. We were just…” I looked around, but Amarien had already fled. _Coward._

“Hmm. In that case, perhaps you might pass on our decision to Pippin,” Gandalf added. 

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, of course.”

“And, Beatrice,” Elrond called from within the study, a note of amusement in his voice. “Given that you will be learning to use a sword, it is high time you cease your work as a maidservant.”

“Oh,” I said. “But—”

A sigh trailed through the window. “I will not hear another word of you ‘earning your keep’ here,” Elrond said wearily. “You have more than done your part; now, focus on learning to defend yourself.”

“Yes, sir—I mean, my lord.”

Halthel didn’t seem sorry to hear that I was quitting. “You have made dreadfully slow progress in sewing and knitting” served as my abysmal exit interview, and I handed in my ink-stained maid’s apron rather happy to be unemployed again. Still, learning to fight was an unnerving thought. Would I really have to defend myself in a battle? A real, medieval _battle?_ The thought was so alien that I couldn’t quite picture it.

“I didn’t know they were making you learn to use a sword too!” Merry waved at me with his blade as I approached the hobbits, who were exchanging clumsy blows with Strider and Boromir in an open courtyard.

I waved back nervously, twisting my sleeve in my fingers.

“I’m just glad you’ll be joining us on this quest, Miss Bee,” Sam said brightly. “I’ll feel much safer with a sorceress among us— _ow!_ ” While he was distracted, Pippin had thwacked him on the head with the blunt of his blade.

“Have you got a sword, then?” Pippin asked, ignoring a glare from Sam.

“Indeed she does,” Strider said, looking up from his sparring match with Frodo and gesturing to a thin sword and scabbard in the grass. “There is a blade that should suit you, Beatrice, courtesy of your friend Lanion.”

“Oh!” I unsheathed the sword cautiously, a cold mixture of eagerness and apprehension blooming in my stomach. It wasn’t nearly as heavy as I’d feared, but it certainly wasn’t _light._ I jabbed at the air experimentally. Admittedly, this was pretty cool. I grinned, my nerves dissipating a bit as I swung the sword around again. _My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to—_

“No, no,” Strider stepped in and stopped me. “It is a longsword, not a rapier. Wield it with both hands. There—your grip will be more secure and your blows will land more weight.” I obeyed, and he nodded. “Now then, Frodo—try the technique I taught you. Beatrice, try to block his attack.”

Frodo nodded determinedly, and I gulped.

“I’m no good at this,” I grumbled after a few hours. I was thoroughly embarrassed to see how much better the hobbits were than me and flushed as several other members of the Fellowship had come by to watch our progress—an audience was the last thing I needed. After a while, the movements of my blade and the corresponding footsteps had become marginally less awkward, but I couldn’t stop flinching whenever a sword swung my way.

“It’s only because this is your first lesson,” Frodo said kindly. “We’ve had a few weeks with our swords now.”

“Besides,” Merry added, “we’re shorter than you. Good for a quick swipe to the _legs!_ ” He yelled the last word, diving at my feet with his sword.

“Gah!” I leapt back and waved my sword clumsily, tripping on the hem of my dress and falling onto the grass with a _whump._

“Sorry,” Merry said, looking rather pleased with himself. I glared at him as I got to my feet. Whose bright idea was it to trust the hobbits with swords?

“Perhaps a bow might suit her better, Aragorn,” Legolas chimed in. He sat in the grass, his long legs stretched idly in front of him, watching us train as though we were a mildly entertaining circus act.

“A bow? Sign me up,” I said grumpily. “Anything’s better than _that._ ” I jabbed a thumb at Merry, who was still chuckling at me.

“You agreed to Lord Elrond’s condition to learn to use a sword,” Strider reminded me. “This shall prove more useful on our journey; after all, even Legolas uses long knives in close combat. Or do you hope to bludgeon orcs to death with a bow?”

Heat rose to my face, and I scowled.

Legolas sighed. “Ah, I suppose you must content yourself with your violin bow for the present, Beatrice.”

“You shall become a talented swordswoman in time,” Strider added, more gently. “Now, change partners again, all of you, and remember your footwork. Beatrice, partner with Legolas this time—he will not attack you unawares as Merry did.”

“I make no promises, Aragorn,” the elf laughed, getting to his feet and drawing a long silver blade. “Oh, come now, Beatrice, do not look so concerned. I will fight fair.”

I tried to settle my nerves as he led me through a series of slow parries. “Sorry,” I muttered as my sword went flying into the grass. “Um, your highness.”

“None of that, I beg you,” Legolas laughed. “I stand on little ceremony—the title of prince means little among elves. And there is no need for apologies, either. Swordsmanship takes a good deal of time to master, and besides, it is all fascinating to me, for it has been many years since I have sparred with one as inexperienced as you.”

I might have been offended by that if I hadn’t spent so much time around Amarien. “How old are you, then?” I asked as we began again.

He grinned and shook his head. “I have seen far more centuries than any others sparring here today combined. Will that suffice?”

“I guess,” I said faintly—even after months in Rivendell, elves’ ages still made me uncomfortable. “You kind of reminded me of my friend Amarien, and I thought you might be really young like her,” I added, thinking of her eagerness and constant smiles. “Young for an elf, I mean.”

“Ah yes,” he said, grinning wider than ever. “You refer to the charming maidservant who joined you in spying on me and my retinue when we arrived in Rivendell?” I choked, and he took the opportunity to whack the blade out of my hands again. “Perhaps you might have used some of your sorcery to remain undetected,” he added cheerfully, “for as it was, you were quite easy to overhear, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t have any _sorcery,_ ” I exclaimed, picking up my sword again as heat rushed to my face.

“But of course you do,” Boromir broke in, frowning as he parried an awkward blow from Sam. “You have shown us the proof just yesterday.”

“That stuff isn’t magic,” I said wearily. “It’s science.”

Legolas huffed, looking unconvinced, and Boromir shook his head. “The flying carriage I saw could not possibly be accounted for by the sciences,” he said stubbornly.

“Well, it was,” I retorted. “We don’t have magic where I’m from, and I’m not a sorceress, or a witch, whatever. I’m _not,_ ” I added in exasperation as they both shook their heads.

“I believe you,” Boromir said as Legolas and I crossed blades again. “Or perhaps I should say, I believe that you are not a sorceress among your own people, where such magic is commonplace. But in Middle Earth, how can such things be acknowledged as anything else?”

I scowled as Legolas knocked the sword from my hand a third time. If I was a sorceress, I decided, I was a pretty useless one.

The next several weeks slipped by in a flurry of parries, jabs, and bruises.

Before I knew it, snow was dusting the valley, and the Fellowship was preparing to depart. I had pressed Gandalf to leave sooner, dreading having to hike through the snow, but he had insisted on waiting for Elrond’s patrols to track down the whereabouts of the Black Riders. I had scowled at the news, but was secretly pleased to have more time in Rivendell—the Hall of Fire was more inviting than ever now that winter had come, and the thought of saying goodbye to Amarien and Bilbo and all the others made my heart sink.

Still, time marched on, and before I knew it, my last day in Rivendell had arrived.

In an effort to shake off my nerves for our departure the next morning, I poured all my energy into one last violin performance in the Hall of Fire. For the most part, it worked—I lost myself in the fastest, most complex song I could manage without sheet music, trying not to think about when I’d be able to play the violin again. I’d have to leave it behind, of course, since it belonged to Lanion. Even if he’d gifted it to me outright, I wouldn’t have wanted to risk damage to the delicate wood by lugging the instrument through the snow.

“What a show!” Bilbo cried as I sank into an armchair by the fire, the final notes dissipating in the chill night air. “Such an odd tune, but I enjoyed it immensely.”

“Thanks,” I said, slightly out of breath after completing the chorus of ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia.’ “We used to play it at live music nights—if only someone here knew the lyrics and had an electric guitar, y’all could hear it performed properly…”

“In any case, it was a memorable farewell you’ve given us,” Lanion added.

“I’m glad to hear y’all’ve finally come around to country music,” I said, tucking the violin back into its case. “Lanion, I can’t thank you enough for lending me your violin.” Reluctantly, I handed the instrument back to its owner.

“It shall be waiting for you, should you ever return to Imladris,” he replied.

I nodded, swallowing around a sudden lump in my throat. Unable to form a proper goodbye, I hugged Lanion and Bilbo tightly before returning to my room to finish packing.

“Ah, good, you are here!” Amarien said. “I have been gathering some things you may wish to take with you.”

“Oh, thank you so much, I—” I hesitated at the mountain of clothing and supplies she was sorting on my bed. “Amarien, I can’t take nearly this much stuff!”

“But you shall be gone ever so long,” she fretted. “And you shall need the essentials, at least.” She showed me a satchel packed with a small lump of soap, a wooden comb, leather ties for my hair, extra handkerchiefs, and a small linen cloth to clean my teeth. “And of course, you shall need these,” she added, gesturing to several rags and a clunky cotton belt, made for securing them into my underwear: the sad Middle Earth equivalent of sanitary pads.

I groaned. _If only Saruman could have magicked over some tampons._ “Yay,” I said sullenly, adding them to my bag.

“Will you be bringing all your things from Texas?” Amarien asked, holding up the flashlight curiously.

“Just about,” I said, adding it to my bags, alongside the walkie talkies, Swiss army knife, and pistol. I’d hesitantly examined the gun since arriving in Rivendell, though I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. The extra ammo I’d grabbed had proven not to fit after all, but its magazine—once I’d figured out how to detach it—still held six rounds. Eying the weapon distastefully, I buried it under the pads in my bag. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to use it. 

“You shall be happy to know,” Amarien went on, “I obtained some traveling clothes for you with Lhosdess’s help. She is Arwen’s lady in waiting, you know, and so is quite experienced in crafting women’s riding clothes and the like. You see?” She held up a long-sleeved shirt and pants, lined with thick gray wool. “These are much like men’s trousers, but are still decent, and shall keep you warm besides. And look! Bilbo made a request to add these.”

“Pockets!” I laughed weakly, a lump forming in my throat. “Y’all have been so nice to me. I don’t deserve half of it.”

“None of that,” Amarien chided. “I am certain you would do the same for me. You took on work as a maidservant, after all, though you did not need to.”

I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. “I just wanted to be helpful,” I sniffed. “It wasn’t…”

“No, but don’t you see? You desired to share my work—you treated me as an equal, a friend!” She dabbed at her eyes fretfully. “Oh, Bee, I have had precious few friends as dear as you. How gray this valley shall seem when you are gone—”

I burst into tears. For all that I missed my friends back in Texas, none of them had ever said anything half so kind to me. “I’ll miss you too,” I said shakily, hugging her. “I’ll see you again, you know, before I leave,” I added, without thinking.

_Will I?_ I hesitated. I’d told Radagast I’d see him again before I left Middle Earth too. And as eager as I was to be home, I didn’t regret it—I _did_ want to see that strange, flighty old wizard again, almost as much as I wanted to stay in touch with Amarien and Bilbo and Lanion and all the other friends I’d made in Rivendell. But how many more promises would I make here—how many more ties would bind me to Middle Earth before all was said and done?

“Well, you had best keep your word, Beatrice Smith.” Amarien fixed me with a threatening, teary-eyed glare. “I’ll not have you disappearing to other worlds without a proper farewell.”

“I promise,” I said, and I meant it.


	16. Baby It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments so far- I'm really overwhelmed and flattered! Always happy to hear feedback, questions, and constructive criticism. I'm just happy this story might help y'all escape from the real world for a while. 
> 
> Hang in there, everyone.

"It's freezing," I muttered under my breath, clutching my thick wool coat around my shoulders. I'd held out most of the day, determined not to complain, but the words finally slipped through my chattering teeth as the sun sank toward the horizon.

We had stopped to make camp at last, and it was all I could do not to collapse on the ground in a boneless heap. While I was probably in the best shape of my life, considering my daily swordplay and frequent walks around the valley in Rivendell, I hadn't been prepared in the least for the brutal reality of hiking all day in the winter wilderness, especially at the grueling pace Gandalf had set for us.

"It will only get colder the closer we get to mountains, Beatrice," the wizard said unhelpfully as the others began to set up camp. "However, you are in luck, as we are still close enough to Rivendell that we might chance a fire tonight." He passed me some sharpened gray rocks from his cloak. "If you will?"

"Oh! Of…course." I examined the rocks with some confusion.

"Off with you—collect some kindling, go on." Gandalf shooed me away, turning away to talk with Strider.

I glanced around in confusion for a long moment. Kindling? But we were in the grasslands, so there were no trees, and no firewood. And what was I supposed to do with these rocks?

"You alright, Miss Bee?" Sam appeared at my side, hefting a small iron pot in his arms. "I'm to make something hot to eat, once we've got a fire goin'," he added, with a meaningful glance at the rocks in my hands.

"Um, right," I stammered. "But I don't know what to…"

Sam frowned up at me. "Haven't you never used tinder and flint to start a fire, Miss?

"That's what these are? Flint?"

He raised his eyebrows, but mercifully was too polite to tell me how stupid I was. "I'm guessing they haven't got flint where you're from, then?"

"Can't say they do." I glanced around self-consciously—everyone else was bustling around the camp as though they knew what they were doing, unpacking bags, poring over a map to discuss our route, tending to our pony, Bill… "I'm sorry," I stammered. "I've never done any kind of outdoorsy stuff like this—"

"Don't fret, Miss Bee," Sam said kindly. "I learned a good deal about settin' up camp in the wild from Strider, you know."

"Really?"

With a nod, Sam led me to the edge of our camp, where he helped me cut piles of dry grass to use in place of firewood. Under his patient watch, I clumsily tied the grass into bundles and stacked them into a pile, my fingers half-numb from the cold. "Now strike the flint like so, if you follow me, Miss," Sam instructed, hitting the rocks against one another. I took the flint from him and obeyed. "That's it, just closer to the kindling."

I tried again and again, until at last sparks flew and the grass caught fire. "Yes!"

"Finally!" Pippin cried, huddling close to the flames as I stoked the fire with the end of Sam's soup ladle. "Took you long enough." I rolled my eyes and whacked him on the head with the ladle, eliciting a snort of quiet laughter from Frodo.

"Hey now, don't make fun. It was very good for her first campfire," Sam said stoutly, and I beamed at him. He busied himself with setting up his stew pot over the fire, his ears turning red.

"What's that?" Frodo said suddenly, squinting up at the evening sky.

I looked up from the fire, the screeching of birds suddenly audible. My spine prickled—the sound was oddly familiar.

_"Get down!"_

I had barely made out a dark cloud of crows descending on our camp when the hobbits and I were knocked flat into the grass by Strider and Legolas. Dazed, I had just enough time to see Gandalf hurriedly smothering our campfire, the rest of the Fellowship ducking for cover—and then the birds were upon us.

I pressed my arms over my head protectively, screwing up my eyes against the cacophonous screams, the wild flapping of black wings, a sharp stab of pain as a bird raked its claws into my hair—

Only seconds later, the birds were gone. We got to our feet, eyes darting back and forth apprehensively, but the evening sky was clear. The crows were already barely visible on the horizon as they retreated south.

" _Crebain_ —spies from Isengard," Strider hissed, and I felt a chill enter my bones that had nothing to do with the cold. I _knew_ they'd seemed familiar. These were the same birds I'd seen when traveling with Radagast—the same ones Saruman had sent looking for me.

"Then our quest has already been discovered," Gandalf muttered darkly, brushing dirt and grass from his robes. "And only a day's journey from Rivendell." He glanced at me darkly, and I knew we were wondering the same thing— _how much had Saruman seen in that book?_

"I suppose we won't be making another fire, then?" Merry piped up, and I frowned wistfully, eyeing the remains of my short-lived campfire.

"No indeed, master hobbit," Gandalf said. Pippin groaned audibly, earning a glare from the wizard. "Greater caution will be needed from now on. In fact, I think it best that we cease traveling during daylight entirely, to remain hidden from watchful eyes."

We ate a cold meal that evening. None of us much felt like talking, though Strider and Gandalf stayed up late into the night arguing in hushed voices, their heads bent over a yellowed map of Middle Earth. I didn't know what path they'd choose for us to take, but I had a feeling there wasn't anywhere we could go that Saruman wouldn't see us.

I scowled at the sunlight behind my eyelids, burying my head under the covers of my sleeping bag. The morning air was shockingly cold, and it was all I could do not to think of my warm bed in Rivendell. Or my clean nightgown, or a hot bath, or a warm meal— _no, stop it, Bee!_

True to Gandalf's word, we had made the switch to nocturnal travel as quickly as we could. The next several days had consisted of going to sleep and waking up at increasingly odd hours, made all the more enjoyable by the ever-colder weather, which we had to endure without even mention of a campfire. We might have been marginally safer from Saruman's gaze, but we were all left freezing, out of sorts, and exhausted.

Well, not all of us. Our new schedule didn't seem to bother Strider or Gimli very much, as they quickly proved that they could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, when needed. And Gandalf and Legolas didn't seem bothered either, but then again, I wasn't sure if they slept at all. I had the feeling they just stared out pensively into the sky, lost in thought, while the rest of us snored.

So complaining about our new sleep schedule had fallen mostly to me and the hobbits, who found solace in grumbling amongst ourselves as we stumbled over rocks in the dark and tried to create makeshift blindfolds out of handkerchiefs to keep the sun out of our eyes as we slept.

I thought I'd get used to it, given my near-constant state of exhaustion. But it seemed I'd underestimated the stubbornness of my internal clock. I squinted grumpily at the others; no one else seemed to be having trouble sleeping like I was. Everyone was out cold—even Gandalf and Legolas seemed to be at least feigning sleep—except for Boromir, who had been condemned to the first watch of the day.

I shifted in my sleeping bag a little to glance over at him, and was surprised to see him bent over a ragged scroll of parchment, a tiny ink bottle perched on a rock next to him. He wrote for only a moment before resuming his watch, and after a minute or two of scanning the horizon, bent over the parchment again to add another sentence.

What in the world was he writing? Some kind of travel log? I had never imagined gruff, brash Boromir as a _writer_. Curiosity got the better of me, and I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, sneaking over to the edge of our camp where he was carefully scratching out words onto the parchment.

"Whatcha doing?"

The quill twitched in Boromir's hand, but he didn't look up. "Go back to sleep." He spoke in a whisper.

"I was already awake," I whispered back, plopping down onto the grass next to him. "What are you writing?" He raised an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. "Don't worry, I won't read it. I'm just curious."

"I am writing to my brother," he said shortly, and paused to scan the horizon again.

"Oh yeah, you mentioned him at the Council, didn't you?"

"Yes." His voice softened. "Faramir, the captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. A braver and more honorable man you will not find in the whole of Gondor."

"But how are you going to send him letters from out here?"

"I cannot send them to him, of course," he replied, shaking his head. "Assuming we reach the White City in one piece, I shall give these letters to him then."

"That's really sweet," I said, eyeing his heavy, deliberate penmanship. I felt, rather than saw, Boromir roll his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," he said again, resignedly. "You will be exhausted come nightfall."

"It's no use. I can't sleep anyway." He didn't reply, which I took as an invitation to stay. "Do you and your brother always write to each other like this?"

Boromir nodded, scanning the horizon as he spoke. "We are separated often, due to our stations and the demands of our posts. It has been our tradition to communicate thus since Faramir was young. I am no great writer, as he is, but my letters always meant a great deal to him, especially when he was a child and did not yet comprehend why I was so often sent away to fight."

I frowned. "You were sent off to fight when he was still a child?"

"I am nearly twelve years his senior," he explained.

"So…you were going off to battle as a teenager?" I replied, trying to calculate their ages in my head. Boromir looked young, maybe mid-thirties at most, but spending so much time around elves had warped my judgment.

"Of course; that is the nature of war," he said bluntly. "I have been defending my city since the age of fifteen."

I winced, imagining a young Boromir seated on a warhorse, gangly and bare-faced, bidding his toddler brother farewell, not knowing if he would ever see him again. "I'm sorry," I muttered. "That's..." what? _Terrible? Unfair?_ Of course it was, but it seemed rather pathetic to say so.

"That is the way things are," he said. "Is it not so in your nation's army?"

"People in my country can join the military at eighteen. They're not considered adults until then. I mean, when I was fifteen, I wasn't even old enough to drive a car by myself, let alone go off to battle!"

"But of course you would not have gone to battle in any case," Boromir said, looking bemused. "Perhaps a man from your country would better understand the sacrifices Gondor has made in this war."

"Women in my country do go to war," I snapped, glaring at him.

Boromir raised his eyebrows. "Is your nation under such duress, then, that even the women are sent to fight?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose in exasperation. "No, that's not what I meant! Men and women are equal under my nation's laws. Nearly every country in my world allows women in their military."

"But surely few of your women would wish to undertake such a dangerous task, sorceresses or no."

" _None_ of them are sorceresses, and _plenty_ of them want to fight! It's an honor to serve one's country," I said, struggling to keep my voice down. "I figured you of all people would get that."

"Yes," he replied slowly. For several minutes, neither of us spoke, and Boromir continued to keep his watch, occasionally frowning down at his letter as though deep in thought. "If what you say is true," he said abruptly, looking uncomfortable, "Middle Earth must seem unwelcoming indeed, given the esteem to which you are accustomed in your homeland." Taken aback, I nodded hesitantly. His frown deepened, and another long moment passed before he spoke again. "I can scarcely fathom your grief at being so far removed from your people," he muttered, his voice low. "It does not bear imagining."

"I'll make it back eventually," I said feebly, trying to will myself to believe it. "I'm sure there'll be something in the library in Minas Tirith that will help."

"I do hope that you will find answers in my city. But until then," he added haltingly, "if you would like—that is, I have a roll of parchment or two to spare, if you wish to write letters to your family as well."

I sat up straighter. "What, really?"

"Of course. Even if they may not read them for some time, it may ease the pain of your separation."

"That's really—thank you, that means a lot," I stammered, overwhelmed by his offer.

"Think nothing of it, Beatrice." As I took the parchment, he hesitated, then shook my hand firmly, nearly making me drop the scrolls in surprise. "But do not presume to write anything now," he added, clearing his throat hastily and turning back to his letter. "Get some rest, if you can, for it is nearly noon."

I nodded, gazing down at the parchment, and made my way back to my sleeping bag with a much lighter heart. I knew it wasn't much, but to write to my family and my friends! I burrowed deep under the polyester covers in the cold morning air, smiling. When sleep finally came, I dreamed of home.

_Dear Mom,_

_You wouldn't believe where I've been the past few months. I'm in Middle Earth, Tolkien's Middle Earth, from those movies you said were really nerdy. Did you ever watch them? Probably not, I know you never had time for fantasy stuff._

_Are you alright? I'm sure you're real worried about me, and I wish I could actually mail this letter to you, to let you know I'm okay. So much has happened since July, and I'm afraid you won't believe me. I've joined a quest—a real fantasy quest, can you believe it? I'm heading to a medieval city called Minas Tirith, where I'm hoping I'll be able to find a way back to Dallas._

_I hope you're okay, and I'm sorry we didn't talk more when I was still living close by. Don't worry, I'll do whatever it takes to get back home. I'll give you these letters before you know it._

_Love, Bee_

_P.S. Say hi to Bilbo for me! And you'll never believe it—I met his namesake!_

"Alright, get to bed, everyone." I looked up at Gandalf's words, cursing in English as my quill dripped ink onto the parchment. "The sun is rising, and we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow."

"Right then, I'll take first watch," Gimli grunted, standing up.

"Again?" I exclaimed, setting my letter down. "Bless your heart, you just kept watch two days ago. I haven't taken a watch yet, I'll do it."

"That won't be necessary," Strider cut in. "Gimli and I can manage tonight. You need your sleep."

I crossed my arms. "But y'all need your sleep too," I said. "Besides, everyone else has taken at least one watch. I want to do my part."

"You need not trouble yourself," Strider said sternly. "You must recover your strength; you will miss a half night's sleep far more than Gimli or I will."

I bristled, but before I could open my mouth Boromir cut in sharply. "For goodness' sake, Aragorn, let her keep watch if she wishes. Is she not a part of the Company?"

The rest of the group fell silent at his words. Strider studied our faces for a long moment, until Gimli broke the sudden tension in the air with a laugh. "Aye, if the lass wants to stay up half the night and let me sleep, you won't hear me complain."

"Very well," Strider said at last, "though I shall still keep the second watch. Beatrice, wake me at midday, and I will relieve you."

Too taken aback to form a proper response, I nodded and moved to a rocky outcropping away from the Fellowship. The others kept talking in hushed voices for several minutes, and then silence overtook the camp.

Strider had been right—keeping watch was exhausting, far more than I'd imagined, but I didn't dare complain now. I finished my letters to my friends in a few stolen moments and was soon left with nothing to do but stare out at the horizon, hum softly to myself, and tap out quiet melodies on my kneecaps with my ink-stained fingers.

My seat offered an unparalleled view of the grassland, as though the Fellowship were on an island in the middle of a wide green sea. The mountains, whose names I couldn't remember, rose ever closer to the east.

Slowly, the sun inched higher in the sky, until I wanted to scream with boredom. While I couldn't tell exactly when midday was, I remembered the dismissive tone in Strider's voice and waited until I was certain it was a good deal after noon before I crept over to wake him.

"Hey," I whispered, stifling a yawn as I nudged him with my boot. "Rise and shine—your turn to watch."

Strider was alert and on his feet at once. He beckoned me to follow and turned toward the outcropping I'd been sitting at. "You saw nothing of note?" he pressed. "No disturbances?"

I shrugged. "There were more of those crows again, off in the distance, but they didn't come too close." The crebain had reappeared several times since their first attack, but always remained circling in the distance, reminding us of Saruman's watchful gaze.

"Very well. And Beatrice," Strider sighed, looking uncomfortable. "If you wish to take more watches in the future, you have only to let me know."

"I do," I said. "I mean, I'm here to help, after all. I'm sure Elrond wouldn't have given me his blessing to come along if he thought I couldn't handle keeping watch every now and again."

He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. "I agree. From what you have told me, and what Boromir relayed to me this morning, women in your homeland are accustomed to rather different treatment than you have received of late," he said. "Know that I meant no insult—"

"I know," I said awkwardly. "Don't worry about it. Just—just treat me like everyone else, okay? And if I can't handle taking another watch, I'll let you know."

"Very well," Strider replied with a smile. "Now go and rest. You have more than earned it, for it is far past midday."

_Dear Caroline, Nathan, and John,_

_Sorry for not writing separate letters to each of y'all! I'm trying to save paper—might be running low on supplies soon. Also sorry about the handwriting. Quills suck and someone in Middle Earth needs to invent a ballpoint pen stat. Oh right—I'm in Middle Earth. Can you believe it? It's a long story. I didn't believe it at first either, trust me._

_Nathan, I kind of got your book ruined. I'm sorry. You'd love it here though! But guess what, I met your cello's namesake, and let me tell you ~~Glorff~~ \- ~~Glorfinn~~ \- no, ~~Glorph~~ \- however you spell it, he is a piece of work. Super hot though. Like dang._

_Sorry I've missed so many gigs. Are y'all still playing at the Fiddler's Elbow on Fridays?_

I paused, looking critically over my rambling words. It had taken me ages to write even those few sentences—why was it so hard to think of things to say to them? These were my three closest friends, who I hadn't spoken to in months; it should be easy! I glanced over what I'd already written, and scowled to see that I'd apologized to them four times already.

"What are you writing?" Merry poked his curly head over my shoulder.

I jumped, reflexively shielding the parchment with my hands. "Hey, don't read my letters!"

"Relax, we can't," Pippin chimed in on my other side. "I've tried, it's in the wrong language. So what's it say?" He squinted closer at the parchment in the dying light—it was late evening, and we were about to begin another night's grueling walk.

I raised an eyebrow at him, trying to shake off the bitterness I'd felt a moment ago. "Well let's see," I said, picking up the parchment and adopting an exaggerated drawl. "'Dear friends, I've met the most obnoxious hobbits in Middle Earth. They don't fight fair when we practice with our swords, and now they're trying to spy on my letters and have no respect for personal sp—' _Hey!_ "

With a shout of laughter Merry snatched the letter from my hands and bolted with it. "I'll teach you to tell tales about us to your friends!"

"Go, Merry!" Pippin cried as I leapt after him, dodging between other members of the Company.

"Oh no, you don't!" I wrested the paper back with some difficulty, laughing and holding it out of reach as Merry and Pippin jumped for it. I was a good deal taller than them, of course, but Merry dragged me down by the arm and nearly managed to grab it back. I looked around desperately. "Boromir!" I exclaimed, spotting him not far away and flinging the letter in his direction. "Don't let them get it!"

He caught the folded parchment deftly, raising an eyebrow at me—it struck me then that joking around with a woman was foreign to him, for all that he laughed and played with the hobbits. After a moment, though, he obliged and lifted my letter far out of reach. "Fear not, great sorceress," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "I shall guard your correspondence with my li— _oof!_ " Pippin tackled him around the middle, sending them both crashing to the ground in a heap. With a battle cry, Merry whooped and joined the fray.

Smoothing down my coat, I sat down next to Legolas to watch them fight it out. "Never a dull moment with the halflings, eh?" he mused.

"You can say that again."

Boromir's booming laugh echoed across the camp as he wrestled one of the hobbits into a headlock. His grey eyes met mine, and he grinned at me.

"Your handwriting is abysmal, if I may say so," Legolas said idly, nodding at my letter.

"Huh?" I blinked, distracted. "Hey! I'm new to using a quill and ink, it's not my fault!"

"Really? Have you received no education in your homeland?"

"Of course I have!" I exclaimed, folding my arms in indignation. "I have a business degree and everything."

"What is a business degree?" the elf asked. "And what do your people use in place of quills?"

Clumsily, I tried to explain. Much to Legolas's annoyance, Gimli joined our conversation, looking fascinated by the idea of a ballpoint pen. "How is the ballpoint affixed to the quill, lass?" Gimli asked, folding his arms thoughtfully. "And how does the ink not dry out?"

Legolas wrinkled his nose. "This conversation does not concern you, dwarf."

"Aye? Perhaps you should hold your tongue, princeling, if you have nothing of use to contribute," Gimli retorted, cutting off my startled protests.

"Oh, there are several ways in which I might _contribute_ ," the elf snapped.

"Legolas, Gimli, that is quite enough." Gandalf's sharp tone silenced them both. "Now, on your feet, all of you. It is high time we get moving."

"Have you come to a decision about our path, then?" Boromir asked the wizard, helping the hobbits to their feet. Sheepishly, Merry handed me my letter back, rather more crumpled than it had been.

"Indeed we have," Gandalf said, sharing a troubled glance with Strider. "We must consider not only which route is best to take, but which route Saruman thinks we shall take, in order to cast him off our trail."

Gimli clapped his hands together eagerly, all animosity forgotten. "Does this mean…?"

"I am afraid so," the wizard sighed. "We shall attempt to throw the White Wizard off our trail on the slopes of Caradhras, and then yes, we shall make for the Mines of Moria."

_Dear Amarien,_

_This letter probably has a better chance of reaching its recipient than any of the other ones I'm writing. I really miss you, and I hope you're doing well. Are the rest of the guests from the Council still in Rivendell? I hope they're not keeping you too busy._

_We're all still hanging in there, although I'm getting more and more exhausted every day. It doesn't help that whenever we stop for the evening, Strider makes me and the hobbits practice with our swords. I'm not sure I'm very good yet, but hopefully I'll never have to find out._

_I'm not sure exactly where we are now, but we're heading up a mountain—I can't spell it, but it starts with a C, or maybe a K? Anyway, we're not going all the way over. We're going to double back before too long and head for Moria instead—Gloin mentioned it at the Council, remember? Strider and Gandalf think doubling back like that will confuse Saruman, but I don't know. I'm not sure if this is the right path or not. It feels wrong, but what do I know? I wish I really did have foresight like you said._

_It's getting freezing out—or at least I think it's freezing. Are y'all getting much snow in Rivendell? Hope you're staying warm._

_Love, Bee_

For whatever reason, it was much easier to write to Amarien than to my friends back in Texas. In fact, the only thing stopping me from writing her a five-page essay was my fear of running out of parchment—that and the fact that it was now so cold that my fingers could barely clutch the ragged quill Boromir had lent me.

Snow was piling up as we ascended the mountains. Soon it would be past my knees. I'd never seen this much snow all at once before, and kept thinking wryly of how desperate I'd been for snow when I was little. When I was ten, Caroline had sworn up and down that wearing your pajamas inside out and flushing an ice cube down the toilet at night would make it snow the next morning—I'd hung onto her every word, but it had resulted in nothing more than my mom yelling at me for wasting ice cubes.

"You're not used to snow, are you?" Frodo asked me as we walked, his breath coming in short huffs.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked, my teeth chattering so violently that my jaw ached. "Normally we'd be lucky to get a half inch of snow back home. And then the whole city'd shut down since no one could drive in it."

Frodo laughed faintly, exhaustion plain on his face. "Hopefully we won't have to go too much further."

We were gaining altitude rapidly now, and the muscles in my legs were burning. It was a horrible combination, the breathless cold of the mountain air and the sweaty, humid heat of extreme physical exertion. My body was alternately freezing and stifling in my many layers of clothing, and I was learning all too quickly how gross the cold was. There was sweat freezing to my body and the moisture in my nose had frozen and pinched at my skin, making my nose bleed almost daily. Bathroom breaks had gone from slightly awkward to downright painful, as I'd have rather leapt off the mountain than expose more of my skin to the freezing air, even for a moment.

"Hey Gandalf," I huffed, my voice struggling to reach him in the thin, icy air. "How much farther are we going up the mountain? If we're going this way just to double back…"

The wizard frowned. "It shall not be much farther," he answered without breaking stride. "Considering that Legolas spotted more crebain on the horizon only two days ago, Saruman should believe us well on our way over the mountains if we turn back after today."

"Thank _God_ ," I exclaimed, spinning around to smile reassuringly at Frodo. As I turned, I lost my balance, tumbling backwards with an ungraceful _whump_. Reaching out instinctively, I managed to drag poor Frodo down with me, and in turn, he bowled into Sam. "Sorry, sorry!" I cried, struggling to my feet and leaping forward to help them up.

"It's alright," Frodo said wearily, brushing my apologies away. His hair was clumped with snow from his fall, and he shook himself, straightening his cloak.

"Wait," I said, catching a glint of something in the snow. "Is this—?" As though on autopilot, I bent down and picked up the One Ring, glinting on its chain, from where it had landed in the snow.

The wind seemed to die down. All the movement around me ceased. The Ring was warm; somehow I could feel it even through my thick gloves. Or was that just my imagination? I exhaled shakily, my breath forming a sickly fog in front of me. "Oh. I thought it'd be…heavier."

"Beatrice." A voice reached my ears from far away, and suddenly the world was moving again, the wind whipping around my face painfully. " _Beatrice_. Give it back to Frodo, go on," Gandalf was saying, his voice sharp in my ears. The whole Fellowship seemed to be watching me, and I jumped.

"Oh—of course," I said hurriedly. I fairly threw the chain into Frodo's outstretched hand, stumbling away from him in the snow. The watery sunlight glinted off the gold as Frodo fastened the Ring back around his neck, bright enough to leave an afterimage on my eyelids, a burning red circle like an eye. I shivered and blinked, and the image was gone.

"Are you alright, lass?" Gimli appeared at my side, whacking some of the snow off my shoulders.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Just cold."

But that was a lie. For a moment, I'd stopped feeling the cold at all.


	17. Houston, We Have a Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp I’ve left off for 16 whole chapters, but I finally added the romantic pairing- I’m so excited! Although I’m sorry to everyone who assumed that Legolas would be Bee’s love interest- I really hope you stick with this story anyway, since I'm really excited about how this romance will unfold! 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment, and stay safe out there!

My footsteps were heavy and purposeful, echoing loudly as I strode through a hall that seemed more and more familiar with each step. Tall, vaulted ceilings, imposing stone walls, and cold beams of weak sunlight streaming through high, narrow windows...I was back in Orthanc.

But I wasn't a prisoner this time. Things were different now.

"Saruman!" My own voice startled me as I stormed down the hall, the unnatural force of it tearing through the silence and reverberating in the cold, dusty air. "Saruman, come and greet your guest!"

Suddenly I was in a room I knew well. Dusty books lined the walls, their shelves carved into heavy black slabs of granite, and in the center of the room was a small stone pedestal, on which a gleaming black orb rested. I found myself smiling.

"So the little musician returns at last." I whipped around. The White Wizard had emerged from the shadows, looking uncharacteristically wary. Clearly he hadn't expected me to return to Isengard voluntarily. I hadn't expected it either. "To what do I owe the honor, girl? Have you seen reason at last?"

"Be quiet!" I snarled. Again my voice startled me, echoing like a drumbeat against the heavy stone walls.

His black eyes narrowed to slits. "Just who do you think you are dealing—"

"I said be _quiet!"_ The torchlight flickered as I advanced on the wizard.

Saruman studied me cautiously, then his eyes widened in rage—he seemed to have seen something, understood something, at last. "Ah," he said, carefully this time. "So you have taken it for yourself." There was fear in his voice, and I found myself relishing the sound. "You continue to surprise me, girl. I will not ask how you managed to obtain it. But perhaps," he went on, eagerness flashing across his sallow face, "perhaps you have come to make a bargain."

"Why would I bargain with you?" I snapped. I didn't know my voice could hold such menace, and I wondered at the sound.

" _Why?_ " the wizard repeated, as though it should have been obvious. In his eagerness, his voice had gained back some of its confidence, the unctuous, persuasive menace that had twisted my mind once before. "Why else would you have returned? You are not built for vengeance, I think, and so you must have come to me for a favor. We can work together, you and I."

"Don't pretend to know anything about me!" I spat. His words, dripping with corrosive magic, had no effect on me—not anymore. "As it happens, I do want something from you," I added. "But trust me, Saruman, it won't be a bargain or a favor, and we will _not_ be working together."

His jaw tightened. "Do you seek, then, to supplant me?" Scorn had crept back into his voice. "You are a fool to think you can wield it alone. You will need my help, sooner or later; you will see. And I promise to give it, if only you allow me to share in its power."

"Enough!" My hand rose in the air, pointing at the wizard, and a gust of wind followed the gesture, blowing my hair forward and making Saruman stumble back. "Stop talking about help and promises. You know as well as I do that its power can't be shared. And you know why I'm here. You brought me to Middle Earth with the palantír. Now I'm going to use it to go home!"

He hesitated, eyes darting back and forth calculatingly between me and the orb atop the stone pedestal to my left. He looked trapped, torn by his thoughts, but he finally moved to stand between me and the palantír, staff outstretched like a sword.

It was the wrong choice. "Saruman," I snarled, the words sharp in my throat, "you have been supplanted." The wizard's staff flew towards me, as though pulled on a string, and he let out a shout of anger.

I caught the staff easily and felt a cruel smile stretching across my face. "You wanted to share in its power?" I cried. "I'm going to take it with me, and you won't get so much as a _glimpse_ of it again!" At that, the glass windows high above us cracked and shattered, and heavy shards rained down like knives at my feet. I wanted to flinch, but found myself standing resolute, taller than ever; I must be taller even than Saruman now, growing, filling the entire room with a dark, heavy shadow—but no, I wasn't changing—it felt as though something else was growing, straining inside my own chest, forcing Saruman back as shards of glass rained down and shadows poured in like ink from the gaping windows.

Menace curled in my heart as I stepped over the glass shards and swung the staff into the wizard's face, just as he had once hit me. He tried to block the blow, but fell back. I wondered where this sudden power had come from, even as I heard my own shout of triumphant laughter ringing in my ears.

Then I stood before the palantír, turning away from Saruman, assured in his defeat. Flames burst to life from within the orb as I stared into it, as I knew they would, roiling and terrible like a devil's eye. But in a split second before they appeared, the palantír had been still and mirror-like, waiting to come to life. My reflection had appeared on the glassy surface, for the briefest moment, before being consumed by flames, and in that split second, I had seen something strange.

There had been something _glimmering_ on a thin gold chain around my neck.

I hesitated, my right hand tightening around the wizard's staff. With my left, I reached up cautiously, afraid of what I might find. Numbly, I felt at the hollow of my throat, and my trembling fingers brushed against the cold, heavy weight of the One Ring.

I woke up with a cry, scrabbling at my throat to rip away a chain that wasn't there.

"Miss Bee!" Small hands were grabbing at my shoulders, and I twisted out of their grasp, still only half-awake. The flames in the palantír had burned behind my eyelids, and the afterimage lingered, even as I blinked in the freezing sunlight, taking in the faces of the Fellowship around me.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

It had been Sam who had shaken me awake. I had gotten tangled in my sleeping bag as I slept, and I struggled to free myself and sit up, my bedroll sinking several inches into the wet snow blanketing our campsite. My heart was shuddering against my ribs like a frightened rabbit's. "I'm fine, Sam, really," I gasped, still rubbing at my neck where the chain had lain cold against my skin. "I'm sorry if I woke y'all up—"

"Ah, don't mind that, lass," Gimli grunted. I looked over to where he was adjusting his boots. "Most of us were up already, anyway."

"Were you having a nightmare?" Legolas asked. I wondered if elves even got nightmares; he seemed more curious than concerned. I brushed him off hastily.

"It was nothing," I said, growing panicked and clammy as the details came flooding back to my mind. If they guessed, if any of them guessed what I'd imagined, the _glee_ in my voice as I wore it, they would never trust me again. "I'd rather not talk about it," I bit out. I felt sick.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Pippin said around a mouthful of stale bread and dried fruit. The others were doling out leftover food for breakfast as they rolled up their sleeping gear, and I hurried to pack my things too, not wanting to hold everyone up—everyone seemed to be moving with renewed vigor now that we were finally heading back down the mountain toward Moria. "I've had at least one nightmare a week since we left Rivendell," he went on nonchalantly. "Frodo gets them too, even worse."

I glanced over at Frodo as I rolled up my sleeping bag. The hobbit was helping Sam arrange his cooking supplies into Bill's saddlebags, looking restless and disheveled, as though he hadn't slept at all. As he moved, I saw a glint of a gold chain around his collar, and I jumped so badly the sleeping bag slipped out of my hands and unrolled again.

"Bee? What's wrong?" Pippin asked, following my gaze to Frodo and Sam, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

"I said it's nothing," I snapped, and was horrified to hear the same callous tone that my voice had carried in my dream. _I couldn't really behave that way, could I?_ It had been so strange, so alien, as though I were watching someone else's movements, unable to stop them. I pressed a hand to the hollow of my throat again, feeling where it had rested against my skin. It had felt so real. Shivering, I pressed my half-folded sleeping bag to my chest and sighed. "Sorry, Pippin. I didn't mean…I didn't know you have nightmares too. I'm sorry," I said, by way of a peace offering.

"It's only natural," Pippin said, shrugging off my apology and passing me a bowl with the remainder of the potatoes, which I accepted gratefully. "Mostly it's of our pursuit in Bree, and the fight on Weathertop."

 _Of course they'd have nightmares about the Ringwraiths_ , I thought guiltily. Surely that was far worse than any memories I had of Saruman. "All y'all have nightmares about them?" I asked, forcing down some hard cheese and bread. The dream had left a sick feeling in my stomach, and the food felt slimy and cold in my mouth.

Unexpectedly, Pippin laughed. "Not all of us. Sam sleeps like a log every night. I don't think even a Black Rider would be brave enough to try and interrupt his sleep." I gave a forced smile.

"Do not make light of such matters," Strider chided us sharply as he walked past. "Finish packing your things, you two. We have many miles to cover before nightfall." Pippin rolled his eyes at me, and I smiled weakly in return.

Wordlessly, we finished the last of the food, gathered our belongings, and left the campsite.

The Fellowship walked in relative silence, as usual. None of us much felt like talking, exhausted as we were by our steep descent from Caradhras, made all the more perilous in the dark. Still, an uneasy thought had drifted into my mind and wouldn't leave, and after a while I fell into step beside Boromir. "Hey," I said nervously. "Dreams don't...come true, in Middle Earth, do they?"

"What do you mean?" He looked surprised.

"I just…I remembered what you said at the Council, about a sort of prophetic dream you had," I explained. "Is that common here?"

Boromir frowned, considering my question more seriously than I'd expected. "It had never happened to me before that, though my brother has had such dreams in the past. I cannot say that it is common, however. Why do you ask? Do such dreams come to fruition in your Texas?"

I shook my head.

"I see," he said slowly. "Then do you ask because you hope that a pleasant dream will become reality, or that a bad dream will not?"

I opened my mouth to say it was the latter—but at his mention of Texas my mind had drifted back home, among my friends and my family. My warm bed and run-down little apartment, my job and violin and my lumpy lime green sofa, my mom and my friends in my string quartet...they all felt closer, suddenly, than they had in months. I felt as though if I simply closed my eyes and reached out, I could embrace them.

Trying to force back the tears in my eyes, I took a deep breath, but instead of pine trees and cold mountain air, I was inhaling the smell of cedar and smoky mesquite wood, the acrid odor of Dallas traffic, the spices in my mom's kitchen. My hands shook at my sides. A cold, poisonous tendril of dread and hope was winding its way into my heart, and my eyes were drawn shakily up to where Frodo was walking, a little ahead of us.

**_Beatrice…_ **

I nearly jumped out of my skin—for a moment, I'd forgotten where I was.

"Beatrice?" Boromir asked again, looking concerned.

"Oh, I...I don't know," I said. "I guess it wasn't such a bad dream, really."

We continued our descent down the mountain. Hours slipped by in a blur; I couldn't have named a single thing we passed, or a single word anyone said to me. I was only vaguely aware that I had been thinking, almost obsessively, of home, of that _dream_ , which was consuming me like a fire. I was invigorated, dead on my feet, feverish, frozen, elated, miserable— _what's wrong with me?_

"Whoa there, lass!"

"Oh! Sorry!" I exclaimed, having walked headlong into Gimli as the rest of the Fellowship came to a halt for the day, the sun just beginning to stain the eastern sky a glowing pink. I peered ahead at the others; they looked more imposing than usual, their shadows thrown into stark relief against the glittering white of the snowbanks.

"You alright?" Gimli asked, waving off my apology and scowling up at me with concern. "You look half-dead."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered. My eyes were darting around, taking in our surroundings—I felt like I'd just woken up. We were in a little valley between rocky hills, steadily losing elevation. Spiny, threadbare pines dotted the landscape on all sides, though Strider had managed to find a campsite with more shelter than the rest of the hills seemed to provide from the frigid mountain wind.

I looked around for a place to set up my sleeping bag, and I looked over to where the hobbits were gathered. I was most comfortable around the hobbits, especially Sam, so I'd taken to sleeping close by them—but this time I felt a strange sort of reluctance. _You can't hang around too close to Frodo,_ I thought. _It's suspicious. What if they find out what you've been thinking all day?_

Hurriedly, I strode over to the opposite end of the camp and plunked my sleeping bag down next to Boromir's, as far from the hobbits as the clearing allowed. He paused while removing his cloak and raised his eyebrow slightly, clearly noticing my abrupt change in sleeping habits. I ignored him.

"Are you well?" Boromir interrupted my panicked thoughts. "Forgive me, but you look rather feverish."

I let out a hiss of frustration, pressing my face into my hands. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm fine!" I glared around at the rest of the Fellowship, and then rounded on Boromir, who looked ready to protest my words. "I know I'm a woman, and I'm young and inexperienced and _whatever_ , but that doesn't mean I'm about to drop dead at any given moment," I snapped. "Y'all don't need to keep checking up on me. I'm fine, so just leave me alone!"

Boromir's eyes had grown wide during my tirade, and he straightened up and stared down at me for a moment, looking surprised and deeply insulted. "Gladly," he said, lifting his chin slightly. Without another word, he abandoned his bags and strode away, leaving me feeling confused and foolish, and all the angrier for it.

I seethed at him for another moment. The others were distributing a meager dinner of cold vegetables and the last bits of cured meat from Rivendell. Sam, meanwhile, was grumbling that he'd been looking forward to making something hot for once, to celebrate our descent from the mountains.

"For the last time, Master Gamgee, we cannot risk attracting attention with a fire!" Gandalf was saying irritably, though he was eyeing the rancid-looking venison with as much distaste as the hobbit was. "We must simply tighten our belts and be patient."

"For how long, though?" Merry piped up. "It's nearly as cold here as it was up in the mountains. I'm liable to freeze if we keep going on like this." The hobbit turned toward me, knowing I'd agree with him, cold as I always was. "Isn't that right, Bee?"

I'd been watching their exchange from a distance, feeling oddly detached from the rest of them. "Yeah," I muttered. "A fire'd be nice."

"We did not venture this far for _nice_ conditions," Gandalf continued imperiously. "We will simply have to make do."

He was in one of his _Gandalf_ moods again, clearly, but instead of ignoring him or chuckling at his words, I clenched my fists. I was furious—furious with Gandalf, with Boromir, with Frodo, with all of them, and I couldn't explain why. I glared defiantly up at the wizard and saw that he was studying me. His eyes were narrowed under the shadowy brim of his hat, and for a moment I had the horrible urge to strike him, as I had struck Saruman in my dream.

At that thought, disgust flooded my mouth like bile, and I stood up quickly. "Where are you off to, Beatrice?" Gandalf said casually. There was something in his voice that told me he'd known something of what was going through my mind, and was testing me to see what I'd do next.

"Yes, Miss Bee, do come and have some food," Sam broke in, looking concerned. "Pippin's liable to eat your share if you don't get to it first, you know."

But I couldn't. I was sick of them all, sick of myself, sick to my stomach—"I just...need a minute," I said, shaking my head dazedly, forcing the words out through clenched teeth as I stormed away from our camp.

Long shadows bloomed stark over the mountain slopes surrounding the valley. The sun was rising, but in my feverish state, I didn't care much about getting lost, or running into danger in the morning light. _If something does happen to me_ , I thought, wandering aimlessly _, I would deserve it._ How could I have thought such horrible things about Frodo, about Gandalf, about any of them? How could I still be thinking them now? I pressed my palms against my eyes, and they came away wet.

But couldn't they see that this was pointless? Why hadn't this been brought up at the Council? They'd come up with every other plan under the sun, and hadn't once considered sending it away to my world, giving it to me, letting me use it to get home!

Because surely I would have that power, wouldn't I, if I had the Ring? I could force Saruman to show me how to get home, if I couldn't figure it out myself, and then I'd go back and Middle Earth would be safe; the Ring would be out of their hands, out of the enemy's hands, forever! I could go home, I could see my family again, and I would put the ring away, lock it in a safe. I wouldn't tell anyone about it, not ever, and I wouldn't use it—of course I wouldn't. I would just be home, happy and safe, and Sauron could be defeated and Middle Earth would be at peace; it was so simple, why couldn't they see that?

I couldn't say how long I wandered around in the cold morning air, my boots crunching on the frosted grass. Eventually weariness overcame me, and I slunk back to camp.

Most of my companions were already asleep—or so I judged from their even breathing, mingled with the comforting sounds of Gimli's snores. Legolas, who was keeping watch that morning, raised his eyebrow at me as I approached my sleeping bag. I offered an apologetic shrug in explanation. He returned the gesture, looking bemused, and pointed at my sleeping bag with a slender hand.

Resting on my covers was a cold slice of bread and a few of the last pieces of jerky, wrapped clumsily in brown paper. I glanced up at Legolas in surprise, but he shook his head, smiling, and nodded toward one of the little green bedrolls at the far end of the camp.

 _Sam._ He'd known that I'd missed dinner. Helpless tears stinging at my eyes, I picked up the bundle of food, his little act of kindness wrenching at my heart. Quietly as I could, I forced down the food and slid into my sleeping bag, wincing as the polyester scrunched loudly against the ground. With a quick glance, I saw that Boromir's eyes were open, staring intently across the camp. Shame bubbled up in my chest as I remembered how I'd snapped at him earlier. "Sorry if I woke you," I whispered lamely.

Boromir started at my words, wide eyes darting to meeting mine. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself, but he shook his head dismissively. "Think nothing of it," he muttered back, his voice oddly distant.

I nodded and rolled over, curling up into a ball and shutting my eyes tightly. I wouldn't dream about the Ring again. I _wouldn't._ I just had to think about something else, anything else…

A distraction was somewhat easier to come by than I'd thought. As I shifted uncomfortably in my sleeping bag, I found myself thinking about the strange tone in Boromir's voice as he replied to me. Was he angry about my outburst earlier? I didn't think so; he didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, much as I might deserve it. No, he had sounded strangled, almost guilty—as guilty as I felt, in fact. I blinked, then sat up in my sleeping bag, following the direction he had been staring when I'd spoken to him. He had been gazing at the small green lump that was Frodo's bedroll.

Uneasily, I darted a glance back at Boromir.

I couldn't remember much of the second half of the movie. I'd promptly fallen asleep after the Fellowship was formed, and the movie was nearly over by the time I'd woken up again, jolted back to consciousness by Nathan throwing a handful of popcorn at me. Eyes half-unfocused, I'd watched as the characters had…what? Gone canoeing on a river, or something? And then they'd fought some kind of battle, and they were all separated from one another, and…and—

 _Of course._ A half-forgotten memory of the movie came rushing back at last. _Boromir wants the Ring too. And if we're still on the same course that Tolkien wrote, it's going to cost him his life._

My blood turned to ice, prickling along my veins. _But we're not still on that course,_ I told myself. _Saruman's made sure of that. Right?_ I pressed my knuckles against my lips, trying to rein in the panic blooming in my stomach. My fuzzy memory of the scene of his death played over and over in my head, and I rolled over restlessly.

No, we weren't still on that course. And I would keep us as far from that course as possible. Boromir wouldn't die— _none_ of them would. I would make sure of that.

I would keep the Ring from harming any of them.


	18. Below Rock Bottom

The days blended together as we walked. Exhausted as I was, it was an enormous relief to feel even slighter warmer air as we left Caradhras behind us. However, the dissipation of snow did little to warm the chill in my blood, which seemed there to stay.

Not only were my dreams now filled with thoughts of the Ring, but nearly every waking thought dwelled on it too. I wasn’t sure how it had happened—it was like I had been sinking gradually into quicksand, but hadn’t realized it until I was up to my neck. I couldn’t stop imagining how it might feel to use the Ring to get home, the methods I might use to operate the palantír, the way the warm, heavy gold band would gleam on my finger…

The few remaining thoughts that weren’t occupied with the Ring were protesting, in an ever-weaker voice, to remember why I was here. _You’re here to help Frodo destroy it. You promised Elrond. You’re going to look for a way home in Minas Tirith—_

“It’ll be a shame to leave this snow behind, eh?” Merry said, reaching up to nudge me in the side.

The absurdity of his statement shook me out of my thoughts. “Are you kidding?” I snapped. “I can’t wait to be warmer again.” I scowled down at the hobbit, who had stopped to scrape the last dustings of snow from the grass into a lumpy sphere.

“Come on, now,” he said, grinning evilly. “Tell me you won’t miss— _this!”_ With uncanny aim, he launched the snowball at the back of Legolas’s head. I snorted despite myself as the elf whipped around in shock—I had a feeling that, however many centuries he’d lived, no one had ever hit him with a snowball before.

“Bee, how could you?” Merry cried.

I whacked him on the head indignantly. “Don’t blame _me_ for that—”

“Ah, fear not, Beatrice,” Legolas said, grinning as he looked between us, “for I suspect I know who the true culprit was.”

“A Brandybuck won’t stand for such slander!” Merry roared, bending to scoop up more snow.

“Aim for his head, lad,” Gimli called, looking immensely entertained; the dwarf was in higher spirits than any of us now that we were heading for Moria. Legolas glared at him as he dodged another attack from the hobbit.

I tried to smile as I watched them, but I still felt detached, numb, and after a moment my thoughts drifted, as though magnetized, back to the Ring.

“What is that?” Legolas said abruptly, squinting into the sky. Merry hesitated, looking startled, and dropped a half-formed clump of snow from his hands.

“What now?” Gimli huffed, glaring at the elf.

“Quiet,” Gandalf hissed, turning a stern eye on them all. “Listen.”

For a long moment, we all stood frozen—then with sudden darting of wings, a flock of crebain swept overhead, so briefly that I almost missed them. Bill whickered nervously, eyes rolling, and Sam rushed to his side to calm him.

As though it had been buffered by the crebain’s wings, the wind picked up sharply, snapping at the ragged end of my braid and sending a pang of cold through my bones. The wind swelled to a shriek, then to a howl—

“Wolves!” Legolas hissed.

“A greeting from Saruman, no doubt,” Boromir bit out, his head bent against the wind.

 _Wolves—and sent by Saruman?_ I shivered, suddenly feeling horribly exposed. The wilderness stretched around us, a swath of hilltops interspersed with gorges and jagged rocks, slowly rising in the near distance to sheer cliff faces. I couldn’t help but see monsters leaping out of every shadow, teeth gnashing—

Strider turned to Gimli. “How far to the doors of Moria?”

“Very close now,” the dwarf said, pointing at the blue line of mountains looming on the horizon. “Scarcely a league off.”

Gandalf and Strider exchanged a solemn nod, and without a word we all began to run.

The wind rose quickly as the sun dipped below the peaks. I could hear the wolves distinctly now, though it was impossible to discern how close they were—the wind ripped at their howls, dashing them against the rocks around us until they were indistinguishable. Were the wolves ahead of us instead of behind? Were we running right into their jaws? My breath came in short gasps. How far was a league anyway?

Part of me was grateful for the distraction. Anything— _anything_ to push away thoughts of the Ring.

At last, we approached the cliff face. “There they are! The doors of Moria!” Gimli pointed as we neared two of the largest trees I’d ever seen, their branches crawling up the wall of the mountain, gnarled roots erupting from their trunks and stretching towards a dry riverbed nearby. A flat expanse of rock stretched between the trees, though I couldn’t see any signs of a door there.

“Wait!” Strider barked, and we skidded to a halt behind him. “Look.” He pointed at the ground ahead of us, a dried rock-and-mud riverbed. “Footprints—wolf and goblin both.” I squinted at the ground, but it was almost completely dark now, and I couldn’t make anything out.

 _“Goblins?”_ I repeated, horrified. I couldn’t help but think of _The Hobbit,_ and how Bilbo’s run-in with goblins had gone.

“How many?” Boromir said, grasping the hilt of his sword.

Strider shook his head. “Enough to greatly outnumber us. I fear the wolves are cornering us here intentionally. We must act quickly—Gandalf, Gimli, get us into the mines!”

The wind was rising to ever greater heights as we approached the door. Boromir and Legolas set out to build a fire, claiming it would deter even wild wargs—whatever those were—but I eyed their work skeptically. If I was a starving wolf, a bit of fire wouldn’t make me blink. “Hurry,” Legolas murmured as they gathered firewood. “There is something foul in the air that is unknown to me. I fear a strange evil shall soon overtake us.”

Strider and Sam were hurriedly removing the packs from Bill’s back. “The mines are no place for a pony, Sam,” Strider told the hobbit gently, even as tears rolled down Sam’s cheeks. Bill tossed his head from side to side nervously, and Sam threw his arms around the pony’s brown neck.

Gandalf, Gimli, and the other hobbits had gathered under the shadowy branches of the trees, and I gasped as the outline of a door appeared before them on the bare rock, like strands of spider silk glimmering in moonlight. They began to argue about passwords and riddles, their voices half-drowned by the screaming wind, carrying the wolves’ howls ever closer.

I glanced around nervously, the feeling of _wrongness_ growing with each second.

A stagnant-looking pool stretched out into the darkness near us, a last bit of life clinging to the dry riverbed. Its surface rippled unevenly in the bitter wind. By the faint silver light of the moonlit door, I could see the wolf tracks and boot prints Strider had pointed out, all trampled thickly under our feet.

“What’s that?” I wondered out loud, staring into the darkness at a shadowy mass breaching the water, too far for me to make out.

Frowning, Strider took a newly lit torch from Legolas and brought it to me. I held it with both hands, wincing as the wind whipped at the flame, threatening to snuff it out. “A watcher in the water,” he murmured. “Some lake-dwelling beast of enormous size. Or rather, what is left of it.”

The flickering light illuminated the monster’s corpse, slimy and gray and horrible. A mass of tentacles floated on the surface of the lake, undulating away from the body like bloated worms. “Thank goodness it’s dead,” I breathed, but Strider shook his head thoughtfully.

“There are black arrows poking from its skin. Do you see? Goblin-make, given the watcher’s…companions.” He nodded to the right of the creature’s corpse, where several smaller bodies floated, distended and bloodied, in the stagnant water. “There was a fight. Several days ago, I should think.”

I blanched, looking away quickly as my stomach turned. “ _Those_ are goblins, huh?” Strider nodded grimly, and I backed away from the lake, suddenly eager to leave the waterside.

The howling on the wind grew louder as I walked towards the cliff wall, clambering over enormous tree roots until I stood against one of their trunks. I peered up into the blackness of the branches. The darkness was overwhelming; the trees were thick with holly leaves, their evergreen shadow untouched by my torchlight or the silverly glow of the door where the others still stood, calling passwords and commands with growing desperation in their voices. I took a deep, shuddering breath to steady my nerves—and realized what was wrong.

Gasoline.

I sniffed the air again, winced, and was sure. “Strider?” I called, my voice higher than normal.

He followed me after a moment. “What is the matter?”

“Do you smell that?” The smell of gasoline, once so commonplace to me, was acrid and stinging after spending so much time in a pre-industrial world. I coughed. If it weren’t for the howling wind, the smell would have been overpowering.

“Yes, though I do not recognize it,” Strider said, wrinkling his nose. “And look—this is strange.” He pointed at the trunk, and it took me a moment to see the deep scratches in the bark, extending at regular intervals all the way up into the branches. “It looks as though something has climbed the trees.”

“What, an animal?”

“No. Something metal made these marks—armored boots and gloves, perhaps. And you see those long marks there? Something heavy was dragged into the branches. Large boxes, perhaps, or barrels. Can you make sense of it?”

I leaned forward for a better look, and placed a hand on the tree trunk to steady myself. My palm came away damp. “Ugh!” I hissed, rubbing at my hand, and lifted it to my nose hesitantly. “Strider, it’s the bark—the trees are doused in gasoline! Hurry, get the torches away, quick—”

“Aha!” A cry from Gandalf made me whirl around in fear, but he was smiling. “Well done, dear Frodo! _Mellon._ ” They had finally found the password. With a strong push and the unbearably heavy creak of stone on stone, they began to force the doors open.

“Beatrice,” Strider said sharply, and I turned back to him. “What is gasoline?”

A cacophony of howls cut him off, and we whipped around.

The wolves had come at last.

They were approaching from both sides of the riverbed, ringing the black pool in swift, calculating strides. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a wolf outside the Dallas Zoo, but these looked much bigger than any wolves I’d ever heard of, muscles bulging under matted fur, red tongues lolling between enormous, curved fangs. And on their backs rode creatures that could only be _goblins_ , yellow eyes glowing feral in the sickly light of at least a dozen torches, raised high over their heads.

Torches…I stared from the flickering light to the oil-slicked trunks of the holly trees. Strider said something heavy had been hoisted into the branches—

“Strider!” I grabbed his arm desperately, my voice half-lost to the wind. “They’re going to blow up the entrance!”

As one, the wolves charged.

“Into the mines!” Strider roared to the others. “Quickly!”

I tore away from the trees, heart pounding. “Come on!” I cried, grabbing the nearest hobbit by the arm and dragging him into the narrow gap in the wall.

Boromir, running beside us, hefted his shield and moved to defend us from the bounding wolves—but the creatures weren’t even looking at us. The goblins weren’t even holding any weapons.

“What are they doing?” he hissed, pausing as we filed into the entrance.

I shook my head in answer, dragging him further into the mines as, with wild cries, the goblins leapt off the wolves’ backs and flung their torches against the tree trunks.

The oil-soaked bark went up like paper. “Keep moving—away from the doors!” Strider bellowed, his eyes trained on the wolf pack, but the wolves and goblins were already retreating, showing no desire to follow us into the mines. Their job was done.

A flickering orange light lingered in the doorway for the briefest moment, the roar of fire growing like an enormous, rattling breath. We kept retreating, stumbling over rocks in the darkness, as fast as we could, until—

_BOOM._

The walls shook—the stone doors quaked—the doorway collapsed, and we were engulfed in dust. Rocks rained down and the walls buckled around us, the crashing and groaning of stone loud enough even to drown out my thundering heartbeat. At last, the avalanche of stone slowed, then stopped. I had fallen to the ground, the hobbits huddled around me in the darkness.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move, but I forced myself back to life as a torch was lit somewhere to my side. In its flickering light, I saw Boromir crouched above us, his chest heaving and his dark hair thick with white dust. He had raised his shield protectively over us, and slowly lowered it back to his side as he pulled us to our feet, looking as stunned as I felt. “Thank you,” I gasped as our eyes met, though all that came out was a wheezing cough.

My brain still buzzing numbly, I reached into my bag and dug around for my flashlight. I’d dropped my torch in the explosion, but I wasn’t too keen on lighting it again; I found I much preferred artificial light to fire.

Strider raised his torch higher. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, and the rest of the Fellowship gathered around him, shell-shocked and ragged. Other than being filthy, bruised, and scratched, none of us were badly injured. And of all of us, Legolas was the only one who had escaped a thorough coating of dust. _Typical._

Gandalf coughed violently and raised his staff, which began to emit a pure white glow. His hat was badly dented and drooped over his jutting eyebrows, and I had to force myself not to let out a nervous laugh.

“What _was_ that?” Frodo’s voice cut through the dusty air like a knife.

“A trap laid by Saruman, I believe,” Gandalf replied, examining our surroundings. “He must have known we would take this path, and wished to trap us outside the gates—or under them.”

“Luckily, Beatrice recognized his ploy,” Strider added. “So _that_ is gasoline, eh?”

I swallowed nervously, the flashlight beam shaking in my hands. “It wasn’t just gasoline,” I said weakly. “There were some kind of explosives in the trees that ignited when the fire reached them.”

“It is a shame,” Legolas said, “to lose such old trees, which have guarded this door for so long.”

Gimli snorted. “The trees? The entire _door_ is gone. It is only thanks to the great skill of the dwarves that this hall has not collapsed entirely.”

 _This hall…_ At his words, we paused and studied our surroundings for the first time. “What has happened here?” Boromir said slowly, horror in his voice.

I cast the weak beam of my flashlight up to the walls and high ceiling. Thick cobwebs blanketed the thick stone pillars and torch brackets. Although the newly settling dust from the explosion made it difficult to tell, I suspected this hall hadn’t been occupied in a long time. But when I flicked the beam of light toward the ground—

“No!” Gimli cried. Skeletons littered the floor, armor and pieces of fabric clinging crookedly to the brown bones.

“It seems unlikely now that we shall find Balin alive,” Gandalf said gravely. The dwarf began to weep, his shoulders shaking.

“Must we journey through this tomb, Mithrandir?” Boromir hissed, resting a hand protectively on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“Unless you care to dig your way out of the wreckage behind us, Boromir, then yes, we must,” the wizard snapped. “In attempting to divert our course from Moria, Saruman has bound us to it.”

“Can’t we find a way back out?” Sam said, his voice broken. “We left Bill out there—what if the wolves get him?”

“There is no way back out,” Strider replied. “But do not fear for Bill, Sam. The wolves will have retreated far from Moria—likely back to their master in Isengard. And your pony has proven a resilient creature; I would not be the least surprised if he found his way back to Rivendell before long.”

Sam nodded bleakly, burying his face in Frodo’s cloak. 

“It is a three-day journey to the other side of the mountain.” Gandalf dusted off his hat and replaced it crookedly on his head. “Let us move on.”

On we moved.

It was slow going. Whatever Gimli had hoped to find in Moria, it was clear he would be disappointed. The mines seemed to be in ruins—we scrabbled over crumbling stairways, leapt over gaping chasms in our path, stumbled horribly over bloodied armor and dusty bones half-buried in rubble.

The bleak atmosphere was doing nothing to help my mood. The distraction of the wolves and goblins had passed, and now I was more on edge than ever, struggling to breathe steadily in the oppressive darkness, the lifeless cold.

“ _What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, up it goes, and yet never grows?_ ” Sam recited sing-song under his breath. He nudged Frodo, and beamed when the other hobbit smiled faintly back. “D’you know that one, Miss Bee?” Sam asked, turning to me. “I know Mr. Bilbo shared some riddles with you back in Rivendell.”

I frowned, my footsteps slowing. I hadn’t thought of Bilbo, or of Amarien or Lanion or any of the others I’d befriended in Rivendell, in days. I’d tried to write letters to them on our descent from the mountains, but ever since I’d begun to dream about the Ring, I found the words wouldn’t come. I could barely even write to my own family in Texas anymore, Boromir’s spare parchment crumpled half-forgotten in my bags. _I’ll do whatever it takes to get home,_ I’d written to my mom; returning to those words now made me feel ill. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one,” I told Sam, with some difficulty. “We exchanged a lot of riddles, but I couldn’t guess most of his others.”

“Fool of a Took!”

We all jumped, and I turned to see Gandalf glaring at Pippin, who’d been using my flashlight to make finger puppets against a far wall in a weak attempt to make Gimli smile. Hurriedly, he pressed a palm over the light, clearly unsure how to turn it off.

“We are attempting to remain _discreet,_ ” the wizard snapped, snatching the flashlight from the hobbit and pressing it back into my hands. Gimli patted Pippin’s shoulder comfortingly, chuckling despite himself as Gandalf turned a sharp eye on me. “And _you_ would do well, Beatrice, to keep your magical possessions out of the wrong hands.” I nodded, scowling and flipping the off switch. “Here is as good a place as any to make camp,” he added at last, looking exhausted.

I kept first watch that night. The others had protested—it was more dangerous here, I looked so tired, didn’t I need to rest? I had waved their arguments away, reining in my anger with difficulty. What did it matter if I was up half the night? I wasn’t tired—I had never been so awake, so restless. I took my post, pacing erratically and squinting into the darkness, eyes wild and unfocused.

I had to get the Ring. I _would_ get it. Plans flew, half-formed, through my fevered mind, one after another. Obviously, it would be for Frodo’s own good to get the Ring away from him, considering the danger it put us all in. The events of today proved that, if nothing else. My foggy memories of Boromir’s death in the movie had become all but indistinguishable from the dozen horrible deaths I’d conjured up in my fevered mind for all of them—they were all in danger as long as Frodo had the Ring.

But that didn’t mean Frodo would give it up easily. I’d have to convince him. Once we made it out of Moria, I would get him alone and talk to him. Surely he’d see things my way soon enough—it would be so much easier for everyone if I just took it back to my world…But what if he didn’t agree?

 _You’re stronger than him. It would be easy, so easy, to just take it._ The thought seemed to come from outside my own mind, and I flinched. What was I thinking—could I really hurt him, attack him, steal from him? He was my friend. _If that’s the only thing keeping you from getting home…_

**_Beatrice…_ **

Yes, I thought feverishly. Yes, if that was the only thing keeping me from getting home, then I didn’t have a choice, did I? The only other option was to sit back and let the Fellowship fall apart, let my friends die, and never find my way home. That wasn’t a choice at all! Something clicked in my head, and I exhaled sharply, burying my face in my hands. “ _Now that you are given one, you’re either left with two or none_ ,” I recited under my breath.

“Beatrice?”

I jumped, whirling around the darkness, and recognized the silhouette of Gandalf’s now-dented hat. “What?” I hissed, fury bubbling up in my voice, unfounded.

“You have wandered rather far from your post,” he said mildly. “It is dark, and the ground uneven. Do take care not to fall.” The wizard leaned heavily on his staff, which was emitting a barely visible beam of light. I blinked, taking in my surroundings for the first time in several minutes. My pacing had indeed taken me a long distance from the Fellowship, who were huddled in their bedrolls at the far end of the cavernous hall. “Are you well, child?”

He had asked me that once before, and I was no better then than I was now. _Child._ The word prickled at my brain—he thought I couldn’t handle myself on this quest, that I was weak, foolish, helpless—hadn’t he seen what I was capable of by now? I escaped from Saruman, I made it to Rivendell, I’d gotten this far, hadn’t I? _Child._ I would show him, all of them. I would take the Ring, saving all of Middle Earth in the process—I would be stronger than any of them—

“Beatrice.” Gandalf’s voice was still a whisper, but it had an edge to it I’d never heard before.

My blood was thin and cold in my veins. With an effort, I mumbled, “No, I don’t feel well.”

“Then come back to the others. I will take up the watch.”

“I can’t,” I whispered. “I—I’m not…” I didn’t think I could bear being among them, laying down to sleep among people who trusted me, as though cruel, terrifying thoughts hadn’t been churning in my mind all day. A last tendril of clarity passed through my mind. “Something’s wrong with me,” I admitted, so quietly that the words dissolved in the dusty night air.

Gandalf sighed. “Yes, I believe I know what ails you.”

My blood went cold at his words. He _knew?_ Shame bloomed in my stomach, quickly giving way to fury. He knew I wanted the Ring—so he must have known _why_ I wanted it—and he still insisted on sending it off to Mordor, taking away my only chance at getting back home?

“Oh, do you? You know Middle Earth would be safe if it was brought back to my world,” I hissed, struggling to keep my voice down. “Damn it, why didn’t you bring it up at the Council, why didn’t you even _suggest_ letting me use it to get back home?”

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened on his staff. “You know very well why. What is your plan—advancing on Isengard with the Ring in an attempt to wield the White Wizard’s palantír? It would not succeed, Beatrice.”

“It would!” I spat, rage burning oily and black in my stomach. Did he even _want_ me to get back home? Or was he trying to keep me here forever, like Saruman had, hoping to take advantage of my world’s technology? Did he really think I’d sit by and let him do that? How little did he think of me? “You _never_ had any faith in me, not when we first met and not now, you think I’m too weak to do it!” I clenched my fists, feeling that same horrible urge to strike him: a grasping, sinister figure in the dark, no longer the kindly old man I had known. “To think I looked up to you when I was young—”

“ _Beatrice Smith!”_

The darkness seemed to solidify around us, Gandalf’s shadow growing larger, menace billowing outward from the wizard’s silhouette.

“That is enough.” There was an awful finality in Gandalf’s voice now. “It is not a matter of your strength or weakness. Do you understand? It is the Ring’s greatest hope to be brought to Saruman, who would in turn lead it to Sauron himself. _You cannot return to your homeland with the Ring._ I will not hear a _word_ of this foolish scheme again, do you understand? You will not speak of it to anyone, especially to Frodo.” I didn’t reply. My hands had clenched into fists, and I was shaking. He grabbed my shoulders harshly. “Listen to me! You know why we did not suggest this.”

I heard his words as though from a great distance, but I didn’t respond.

“You recall what was spoken at the Council. The Ring must be destroyed—do you remember?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Yes, of course I remember,” I gritted through my teeth. “It’s the only way to keep it out of the enemy’s hands. If any of us uses it…” I faltered. The others had talked about this at the Council, but now it seemed ridiculous and naive. I forced the words through my teeth. “Any work we do through the Ring will be turned to evil.” I let out a shaky breath. “That…that’s why I can’t use it to try to get home.”

He nodded sternly and went on. “The nine of us chosen to protect the Ringbearer made an oath—do you not remember?” I swallowed. I tried to summon the words, but suddenly they were rising like bile in my throat and I choked convulsively. “Tell me!” Gandalf folded his arms imperiously, suddenly looking every inch a wizard. “Recall your promise, Beatrice Smith, or revoke your place in the Company!”

“I agreed to help destroy it, alright?” I whispered, my temper rising to match his. “I swore to go with Frodo and to—to protect him.” _But taking the Ring from Frodo_ would _protect him, can’t you see that?_

“You did.” The wizard studied me intently, as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. “And I too have sworn an oath to protect Frodo, against anything or _anyone_ that means him or this quest harm.”

I had never heard such a chill in his voice. My mouth opened and shut a few times uselessly, but Gandalf shook his head.

“Hear me now, Beatrice: were we not in Moria, I would turn you from the Company without delay,” he said, and I flinched as though he’d struck me. “But given our circumstances, we must pass under the mountains as one. We shall discuss this further under the sunlight—perhaps the free air will clear your thoughts. But if it does not, you shall depart at the earliest opportunity. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice low. I didn’t mean it.

“I will take up the watch,” Gandalf said carefully. “Go and rest.” He gave me a piercing look as I turned away, and my heart went cold. _Gandalf_ —a larger-than-life wizard, someone I’d idolized as a little kid—didn’t trust me anymore, thought poorly of me, expected the worst of me. And I deserved it. For a moment, guilt overwhelmed me in a bitter wave. But as it washed away, the poisonous draw to the Ring resurfaced. How would I get my hands on it now, when Gandalf would be keeping such a close eye on me?

Hating Gandalf, hating myself even more, I walked back to the others. My hands were shaking at my sides.

A faint scuffling noise made me pause, and I whirled around, expecting goblins, giant spiders, a cave-dwelling monster—but instead I saw a glimpse of a curly head poking around a pillar. “Sam?” I whispered. The hobbit stepped out from the shadows guardedly, wearing a look of betrayal and anger that froze me in my tracks. I swallowed hard, suddenly understanding—he’d had trouble sleeping, perhaps, left his bedroll for a moment, heard our whispered conversation—but how long had he been listening, how much had he heard?

His stricken expression was answer enough. “Miss Bee,” Sam replied slowly, glaring up at me with more malice than I’d thought him capable of.

Oh, it was one thing for Gandalf to be furious with me, but somehow seeing distrust and wariness and fear mingled on Sam’s round face, directed at _me,_ made me want to curl into a ball and weep.

I swallowed again and tried to school my face into a neutral expression. “You…you shouldn’t be up this late,” I said, my voice sounding false and hollow in my ears. “Gandalf’s got the watch taken care of. Let’s get some rest.”

“Go on then,” he said bravely, challenging me. “After you.”

Shame bubbled up in my throat as we walked in a line back to the others. Quietly, I crawled into my sleeping bag, where I proceeded to toss and turn for what must have been hours. Finally, I risked a glance over at the hobbits’ bedrolls. Sam was sitting up, stoutly keeping watch over Frodo’s sleeping form. At my rustle of movement, he turned and glared at me in the dark.

Tears fell bitter and hot from my eyes as I burrowed back under my blanket.

Things couldn’t possibly get worse than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we've gotten back to Bilbo's riddle from several chapters ago! As Bee finally figured out, the answer is choices- and shoutout to reader DreamSoftly for guessing it right!
> 
> As usual, thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment. Stay safe out there!


	19. I Curse the Flames Down in Moria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got to stop writing chapter titles while I’m tipsy. Anyway, enjoy this update and please let me know what you think, if you have the chance. For whatever reason I really struggled to write this chapter, and a little external validation goes a long way!
> 
> As usual, stay safe out there, and merry early Christmas for those of you who celebrate it. Remember, LOTR is a Christmas movie (it has elves and snow) and don’t let anyone tell you different!

“Dwarf-o-dorf.”

“ _Dwarrowdelf,”_ Gimli corrected me, raising an eyebrow.

“Dworror…dulf?” I tried again helplessly, wincing as Legolas stifled a snort behind me.

“Ah, close enough, lass.” The dwarf patted my back indulgently. “I don’t suppose your Texas has anything _this_ grand, though, eh?”

I panned my flashlight across the enormous hall, its beam of light barely a pinprick against the vast columns, the half-crumbled statues, the vaulted ceilings that made up the abandoned city. “Definitely not,” I said honestly, mustering a weak smile, and Gimli whacked me on the back again, looking pleased.

Our progress had been plodding and unpleasant, but we were slowly making our way through the mines. According to Gandalf, this enormous hall was past the halfway point. I had been studiously avoiding the wizard after our _discussion_ the first night in Moria, fear and shame and anger churning in my stomach. For his part, Gandalf was acting as though nothing had happened at all, though he did seem to be keeping a closer eye on me than usual.

Sam, on the other hand—I glanced over at him as we walked, the cold air of the mines suddenly clammy against my skin. Sam glared at me furiously whenever he had the chance, and he now seemed glued to Frodo’s side, as though he thought I’d lunge at the Ringbearer at any given moment.

My betrayal of Sam’s trust—God, it must have hit him hard. I remembered the little gestures of kindness he’d shown me: saving dinner for me that night in the mountains, complimenting my sword-work even though I was sure I didn’t deserve it, seeking out my company to exchange little stories about our homelands…he’d been a real friend to me.

And I’d thrown it all away.

“That was Bilbo’s handkerchief, wasn’t it?” Merry asked me, nodding at the square of cloth I was using to wipe furiously at my eyes. A scrolly _B_ was embroidered onto its corner.

I cleared my throat, dashing the last of the tears away. “Sorry—all the dust in here, you know,” I said hastily, gesturing around at the stuffy room Gandalf had led us into off the main hall. “But yeah, it was Bilbo’s. He found out I didn’t have any handkerchiefs, so he gave me one of his, bless his heart. He was so excited that the initial matched, too.”

“I miss that dear old hobbit,” Merry sighed wistfully. “I wonder if this is at all like his journey through Goblin Town.”

“Haven’t seen any goblins yet, at least,” I offered. He grinned, and I turned away, wondering how quickly his smile would disappear if he knew what I was really thinking: Bilbo’s adventures in Goblin Town had ended in his possession of the Ring. Hopefully, my journey through Moria would too.

I watched the others for a long moment. They were gathering around a tomb rising from the far wall of the room. _Balin’s_ tomb, I heard one of them say as Gimli burst into wracking sobs, his shoulders shaking. I wanted to comfort him, to ask about Balin’s attempt to retake Moria—it sounded fascinating and sad, yet another tale tied to _The Hobbit._ But instead I stayed apart from the others, feeling that same odd detachment from the rest of them. I wasn’t the companion, the friend they thought I was.

Dust motes sparkled in the light from a tiny crack in the mountain’s face, high up near the ceiling. The watery sunlight, casting a weak beam down onto the tomb, was almost blinding after days underground.

Suddenly the mines were unbearably stifling. God, how did the dwarves stand it? I had half a mind to try to scrabble madly up the rock wall and make for that sliver of blue sky, to leave the Fellowship and the Ring and the mines far behind me—I needed to breathe free, clear air, to feel the wind on my face!

Restlessly, I looked away, and a flicker of movement caught my eye. “Pippin, you took my flashlight _again?_ ” I ran to the hobbit, who was shining the beam of light down a crumbling well in the corner of the room, seemingly oblivious to the ghoulish skeleton balanced on the lip of the hole, not two feet from him, rotting wisps of clothing hanging off its bones. Pippin blinked up at me guiltily, and I scowled. “Damn it, you can’t keep going through my stuff, I have some really—well, _dangerous_ things in my bag, okay?”

If anything, that made Pippin’s eyes light up more, and I groaned. The last thing I needed was for him to get his hands on my pistol or flare gun, waving them around Yosemite Sam-style and getting someone hurt. “Just give that back, will you?” I snapped, lunging for the flashlight.

“Hold off, I want to see what’s down here!” he protested, leaping away from me, flashlight still in hand. In his haste, his elbow went through the skeleton’s desiccated ribcage, and an instant later both skeleton and flashlight went crashing down the mouth of the well. Pippin gave a squeak of alarm, and I found myself yanking on the back of his shirt to keep him from going the same way.

“Sorry!” Pippin exclaimed. “I only wanted to—”

His words were drowned out by the cacophonous sounds of the flashlight and old bones still clattering down the well, which was much deeper than I’d expected. The sounds echoed so loudly, and for so long, that I began to feel the rumble of their fall in my feet.

“Fool of a Took!” Gandalf was storming toward us. “And _you,_ Beatrice Smith—confound the foolishness of mortals! Throw yourselves in next time if you cannot keep those magical artifacts in hand!”

“I’m sorry,” I stammered.

“Sorry, Bee,” Pippin muttered again as the wizard huffed and turned away, now exchanging terse words with Strider and Gimli. “Your magic torch thing…”

“It’s alright,” I sighed, my anger dissipating. I could hardly blame him for being curious about modern technology. Still, just to be safe, I fetched my bag and tucked my pistol safely in one of my pockets, just in case he decided to rifle through my things again. “It was just cheap plastic, not magic,” I added. “The batteries would’ve gone out sooner or later anyway.”

“What’s plastic? And what are batteries?” Pippin asked. “What do you mean they’d have gone out?”

I hesitated. “It’s hard to explain. Just, for the love of Pete, stop digging through my stuff, okay?”

“Who’s Pete?”

Before I could admit that I had absolutely no idea who Pete was, a rumble shook the ground again, as though those old bones were still falling, falling—but that was impossible, wasn’t it?

Then it happened again, more of a _boom_ than a rumble now, repeating in an unsettling rhythm in the ground, the walls, even the arched ceiling.

And then we heard them—wild yells and the scrabbling of countless feet, all while the drumbeat went on, louder than ever, _boom, doom-boom, boom—_

“Goblins,” Gandalf said, motioning for us to draw our swords. I swallowed and obeyed.

Strider and Boromir hurried to barricade the entrance. “They have a cave troll,” Boromir informed us dryly, peering through a crack in the wooden doors.

“A _what?”_ I choked. _I should have known_. There were trolls in _The Hobbit,_ after all—although I was pretty sure we wouldn’t be able to turn this one to stone.

We stepped as far from the doors as possible, our backs nearly pressing against Balin’s tomb. I readjusted my grip on my sword hilt, my palms clammy. “The troll shall break through first,” Boromir said to me, not taking his eyes off the door. “Keep well out of its path, and stay behind us when you can.”

I nodded faintly. In that moment, I felt as though someone had opened Nathan’s copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ and glued in a page from another book entirely, a dull, foolish book about a frightened, weak-hearted girl who had no business being in a tale like this—

Then the doors burst open, and we were under attack.

Even with Boromir’s warning, I barely managed to leap out of the way as the troll lunged forward, smashing into Balin’s tomb hard enough to crack the stone. By the time I’d scrabbled away from the troll, dozens of goblins had poured through the doors, shrieking and stamping and brandishing wicked blades _—_ and then one was leaping at me, its sword swinging at my chest. Without thinking I wrenched my blade up to meet it, and the force of the contact jarred up my arm and into my bones, rattling my teeth. The goblin’s blade met mine again, then again, pushing me back, and I stumbled.

The creature bared a mouthful of sharp teeth at me—it was _laughing_ —and suddenly its body fell limp to the ground, its severed head rolling in the opposite direction. Strider stood in its place, black blood dripping from his blade. He nodded once, making sure I was alright, before turning to face another wave of goblins descending upon us. I braced myself, knuckles white on the hilt of my sword, and then the troll was lunging in our direction again, scattering the goblins like bowling pins, and we leapt back just in time.

Now there were goblins everywhere, screams and clanging swords and utter chaos _—_ I had no idea battle would be this _loud._

“Still standing, eh?” Suddenly Merry was beside me, flinging a rock at one of the goblins a few yards away. One of its companions gave a shriek of fury, and was abruptly cut off by a blade buried in its back. Sam, wrenching his sword free, looked stunned at his own success. Merry gave him a whoop of encouragement.

“Where’s your _sword,_ Merry?” I cried as the hobbit bent to pick up another rock to throw, but before he could answer we leapt back, three goblins descending on us from over the ruin of Balin’s tomb. Merry ducked behind me, hurling another rock as Sam and I raised our blades against the remaining two.

“Dropped it,” Merry admitted, though he looked rather pleased with himself—the goblin he’d struck hadn’t gotten up again.

“You _dropped_ it?” Sam exclaimed, sweat beading on his round face as we were forced another step back. “Trust a Brandybuck—” One of the remaining goblins sliced at his head, and Sam dived low, slashing at the creature’s feet. The goblin stumbled back, then collapsed in a sudden heap, an arrow protruding from its eye: Legolas, I assumed, though I couldn’t even tell where the arrow had come from. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the last goblin bearing down on us.

It sneered as it blocked my sword again, then again, the wall behind us growing nearer and nearer—soon we’d be backed into the corner entirely.

“Sorry, Sam, but you know how battle is, eh?” Merry offered weakly, dodging a swipe from the goblin’s sword and pressing himself nearer to the wall.

Despite his offhand tone, the desperation in his voice was clear, and it spurred me onward. I couldn’t— _wouldn’t—_ let anything happen to them. With all the raw talent borne of two months of practice, I swung my blade at the goblin harder than ever—and with the smallest twist of its blade, my sword went clattering across the ground. The creature cackled gleefully, then stumbled back—Merry had lobbed another rock, hitting it square between the eyes as easily as he’d hit Legolas with a snowball days earlier. The goblin shrieked in pain and clutched its bleeding head.

Not wasting a moment, I dived for my sword, ran forward, and stabbed it below the ribs. The spurt of blood through its piecemeal armor, the horrible softness of the blade through its flesh, the _squelching_ sound of tearing skin all nearly made me drop my sword again. Struggling not to retch, I yanked on the blade to dislodge it, the goblin’s body flopping over the hilt. With a disgusted face, Sam helped heave the creature off my blade. The three of us stood there a moment, panting.

“Thanks, y’all,” I said breathlessly.

Sam returned my smile for only a moment. Then his expression became guarded, and he took a step back. I faltered—it had been so easy, fighting side-by-side, to forget what I intended to do once we made it out of Moria, to forget that I’d lost any right to call Sam my friend. I shook my head, suddenly disgusted with myself.

“Merry, where’d your sword get to?” I said shortly, glancing around at the others. Most of the goblins seemed to have been killed or driven away, but the troll was still doing its best to smash everything within its reach. Merry shook his head and pointed at the troll’s feet—he must have dropped his blade in the midst of the fray, where Legolas was now shooting arrow after arrow at the cave troll, which was swatting uselessly at him with enormous fists. “Guess your sword’ll have to wait,” I conceded.

If only we could take down the troll. Legolas’s arrows decorated its lumpy skin, which must be incredibly tough. _I wonder…_

“Cover me for a sec, will y’all?” I said, unbuttoning my pocket and pulling out the pistol I’d taken from Saruman’s hoard. _Six shots._ Would it work? Was the troll’s hide bulletproof as well as arrow-proof?

“Hurry up, Miss Bee, whatever you’re up to,” Sam fretted as Merry threw another rock at an approaching goblin with a satisfying _thud._

God, I hated guns—I didn’t know why I was so squeamish about them. But then, now that I’d stabbed a living creature in the stomach with a sword, my apprehensions had admittedly shifted somewhat.

The troll was maybe thirty feet away, still preoccupied with Legolas’s arrows. Taking a deep breath, I switched the safety off, took aim between the troll’s broad shoulders, and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed like a thunderclap off the cavern walls. Everything seemed to freeze for a moment, then all heads turned to the source of the sound—including the troll’s. It looked entirely unharmed—it seemed my shot had gone wide, despite the size of the target. With an earsplitting roar, the creature rounded on me. Cursing under my breath, I took aim again and fired three more shots in quick succession, two of which hit their mark. The troll bellowed wildly, stumbling to its knees so heavily that the ground shook. Before it could get up again, Legolas had fired two arrows at its throat, and it collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

At this turn of events, the goblins seemed to lose heart—the few left standing tore away from the Fellowship and disappeared the way they’d come.

Hands trembling, I turned the safety back on, ran to our bags (now slightly trampled), and stuffed the pistol out of sight again, suddenly eager to be away from it. I returned my sword to its sheath, too, blanching at the black stains on the blade. I’d have to clean it.

When I approached the others, they were deep in conversation with Frodo, who had fended off a vicious stab wound by virtue of Bilbo’s mithril shirt. “You are full of surprises, master hobbit,” Gimli was saying, patting Frodo’s shoulder appreciatively.

“And speaking of surprises,” Gandalf added dryly, “that is quite the weapon you carry, Beatrice.”

Boromir nodded in agreement, looking impressed and rather taken aback. “You are a sorceress indeed.”

“It’s not magic—I told y’all about guns before, remember?” I said defensively.

“Why didn’t you use that thing earlier, Bee?” Pippin asked. “You could have killed all the goblins in a snap! Not to mention the troll and those wolves the other day—”

“I don’t have enough ammo,” I said. “That is—it only has two shots left,” I amended at his confused expression. “Besides, Legolas is the one who killed the troll in the end.”

The elf shrugged. “As I am feeling generous, I shall let you share the victory, Beatrice.”

Strider frowned. “Your weapon was a loud one, if nothing else. I fear it may have drawn a great deal of unwanted attention. We should get moving. Frodo, are you certain you are well enough to walk?”

“Really, Strider, I’m right as rain,” the hobbit began faintly, but he broke off. More shrieking sounds were trailing from far down the corridor, and now a reddish tinge was cast across the stone walls, as though a bonfire had been lit in an adjacent room. A wave of heat swept over us, faint at first, but growing stronger. Had the goblins set a fire? Were they going to burn us alive?

“Hurry!” Gandalf cried, and we gathered our belongings and ran.

Thankfully, the wizard seemed to know where to go, and we fled through winding corridors and down staircases so steep and narrow that my stomach flipped—it looked like there weren’t any OSHA handrail regulations in Moria.

At last our path opened onto another broad hall. We paused, gasping for air—why was the air so _hot?_ I glanced back; the corridor we’d come from was now gleaming with a sickly light, bright enough that I wondered briefly if the roof had collapsed behind us and let a streak of sunlight in. As whatever it was approached, fires swelled from deep fissures in the stone floor at the far ends of the hall, like a candle stoked by an enormous breath. 

“Gandalf?” Strider turned to the wizard, who stood as though meditating, facing the approaching flame with eyes closed and brow furrowed. “What is it?”

At last Gandalf turned to the rest of us. “A Balrog,” he said softly, the word rolling like drumbeats in the sweltering air. “A demon of the ancient world.”

Boromir’s hand flew to his sword again, but the wizard shook his head. “Your weapons are no more use here. Now hurry—to the bridge of Khazad-dum.”

We turned and ran on, but I barely was paying attention to my surroundings. A _demon?_ Maybe the word didn’t have a direct equivalent in English, I decided. Goblins I could wrap my head around. Trolls too. But demons? I shook my head as we passed yet another corridor, the flames behind us growing so strong that the air seemed to crackle. 

“There!” Gimli cried, pointing to a narrow bridge. It stretched over a black gulf that could have stretched down into the center of the earth, and my stomach flipped. I had half a mind to ask if there was any other way we could go instead, when the flames roared to new heights behind us, and I turned around to see the Balrog.

I had seen a good deal of magic since coming to Middle Earth, from Gandalf’s spinning smoke rings to Saruman’s palantír and his conjured storm over Orthanc, but my brain rebelled at what I was seeing now. It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be.

Wings of fire, large enough to blanket the entirety of the cavern in black plumes of smoke; enormous, clawed feet; a horned head that seemed to have been ripped from Greek myth, grotesquely distorted by the waves of heat bending the air in its path. A demon—a _demon—_ had this happened in the movie? It _couldn’t_ have, because how could I have slept through something like _this?_

“Beatrice!” I jumped as Boromir grasped my arm, pulling me away from where I stood, petrified. “Across the bridge—quickly!”

My vision had tunneled at the sight of the creature, and I felt the ground beneath me sway as I turned to follow the others. The bridge was narrow, horrifically narrow—blackness was rising up from the chasm, threatening to swallow up the bridge and all of us with it, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _breathe_ —then Boromir was pulling me forward again, and we fell in line with the rest of the Fellowship, running, running, until at last we reached the other side. I let out a gasp of relief, my lungs struggling to function—but Gandalf had halted halfway across the bridge, keeping the demon at bay.

He struck his staff onto the narrow walkway, emitting a beam of light so searing that I flinched away, my eyes squeezed shut. Then he was roaring commands at the demon, sounding more like a wizard than he ever had. With a swing of his staff, the ground beneath our feet rumbled. The bridge collapsed, first underneath the demon’s feet, then under the wizard’s.

And Gandalf fell.

I stood stunned for a long moment, and then someone was tugging on my arm again and we were running. More stairs passed under our feet, a hall flew by, and suddenly—at long last—we were outside.

A gust of icy wind whipped at my braided hair, and I gasped for breath, my heart still lodged in my throat. My mind was struggling to make sense of what had happened—the battle, the demon, the flight across the bridge, and _Gandalf_ —I pressed my face into my hands, and felt someone patting my shoulder. Gimli nodded bleakly as I opened my eyes and motioned for me to follow. The others were making their way, slow and shell-shocked, away from the exit and out onto the rocky plains surrounding the mountains.

I blinked up at the clear sky, bluer than I remembered—had it always been this blue? The sunlight stung at my eyes, blinding after so long in the darkness. Gandalf would never see it again, I realized. 

Gandalf was gone—just like that. Had this been part of the original plot, or was the Fellowship on a new, much worse road than it was meant to be? I put my head in my hands again. I hadn’t even been sure if they’d gone through Moria in the movie at all, I knew so little of the original story. I supposed there was no point now in speculating about what might have been. Gandalf was gone.

And now what?

As though from outside my own mind, a thought crept towards me. _It’ll be easier to take the Ring without Gandalf in the way._

I inhaled sharply, bile rising in my throat. _No!_ It was a terrible thing to think, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the idea away.

Again, as though from far off, it wormed its way back. _Think of it: the way is so clear now. No more obstacles. You’ll be back in your own home. You can see your mom again—how worried_ _she must be. And your friends too. Don’t you miss them?_

The voice was wheedling, persuasive, overwhelming. With a sigh I relented, allowing myself to imagine it once again, more vividly than ever: unlocking the door to my apartment, sinking down onto my lime-green sofa, and chatting with my friends. Talking and laughing about work, about family, about rent payments and speeding tickets and promotions and dates and all the random little aspects of routine human life, the good and bad and dull. Then falling asleep in my own bed, safe and warm—

The image changed. Now I saw myself tossing and turning, unable to sleep as I wondered, uselessly, what had become of my friends in Middle Earth. Wringing my hands at my desk at work, biting my nails to the quick at the thought of the rest of the Fellowship left wandering in the wilderness, at the mercy of Saruman and his weaponry.

I swallowed hard. What would happen to the Fellowship if I took the Ring, made it to Isengard, found my way home? Doubtless, Strider and Boromir would continue on to Minas Tirith, and Boromir had described just how dire Gondor’s situation was. If they died in the war against Sauron while I was going about my life in Dallas—grabbing Starbucks coffee and sneaking onto Facebook at work—how would I even know? God, how could I _stand_ it, not knowing?

The hobbits would probably make their way back to the Shire, defeated, betrayed. I knew now how dangerous such a long journey would be. What if they were attacked on the road? I would never know if they were safe. What if they made it as far as Rivendell in one piece, only for Amarien and Bilbo to ask them what happened to me? Amarien was probably the best friend I’d ever had—the realization hit me so hard I swayed on my feet. What would she say if she knew I had broken my promise, not only to the Fellowship but to her?

How could home hold any comforts for me when so many people I cared about were in danger?

 _But this is the only way to get back!_ The thought was cold, sneering, prickling at my skin. _What chance do you think you’d have, going to Minas Tirith? Do you really think you’ll find anything there to help you?_

“Stop!” I breathed, pressing my fists to my eyes. _I won’t take it. I won’t—_

I looked up sharply at the sound of rustling grass. Frodo stood nearby, his bare feet kicking aimlessly at the ground, his face red and eyes glassy. He’d been crying. Like me, he’d wandered, seemingly unawares, from the rest of the group.

“Hey,” I said gently, not wanting to startle him.

“Oh. Hello, Bee.” Frodo’s voice was faint. He looked small—sometimes I forgot just how _small_ hobbits were. “Are you alright?” he asked.

I sighed, suddenly exhausted, and sat down in the dry grass, resting my forearms on my knees. “No, I’m not,” I said honestly. “None of us are. I’m…I’m sorry, Frodo. You’ve known Gandalf for ages. I can’t imagine how hard this must be.”

He nodded, sitting next to me and looking into the distance. “He was so powerful,” Frodo said after a long moment. “Somehow I didn’t think he even _could_ die. Silly of me, I suppose.”

“Not at all. I know what you mean. I know it’s not the same, but…I feel like I’ve known him since I was a little kid,” I admitted. “Ever since I first read about Bilbo’s adventures. He was larger than life. And now…” I trailed off helplessly.

Frodo nodded in understanding, tears rolling down his face again. After a moment, he leaned his head against my shoulder, pressing a hand over his eyes. I looked at him.

The golden chain holding the Ring was just visible above his collar, glinting in the watery sunlight. The Ring was closer to me than ever, just like that. My hand twitched at my side. _Take it—you’ll never have a better chance._ The voice was stronger than ever, as though making a last, desperate attempt to convince me—it made no pretense of coming from my own mind now, and I knew with a sudden, horrible certainty that Gandalf had been right. The Ring _wanted_ me to take it.

My whole body seemed to be trembling as I gritted my teeth, reached out my hand—

—and pulled Frodo into a tight hug.

_I won’t take it. I won’t._

I took a deep breath. A path home had just been closed to me forever. I had forced the door shut, despite myself, and the image was so vivid I could practically hear the lock clicking into place. But I took another breath, and another, and at last the trembling in my hands lessened. The air seemed cleaner than it had before—refreshing, renewing, somehow.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry.” I felt sick—confused, afraid, and unbearably sad—but for the first time in weeks, I was the master of myself again. I let go of Frodo, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Let’s get back to the others, okay?” He nodded listlessly, and we got to our feet.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam was running up to us, alarm clear on his tear-streaked face. “There you are. You shouldn’t go wanderin’ off, sir, not with—” He sent me a wary glance. “—er, not with us bein’ so close to Moria, and all.”

Frodo nodded again and allowed himself to be led away. Sam glared back at me as they walked, and I turned away bleakly.

“Come on,” Strider called to us, his voice low and exhausted. “We have a long way to go before nightfall.”

Taking a deep breath, I slung my bag over my shoulders. As one, we turned from Moria and began to make our way east.


	20. But I Have Promises to Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty chapters at last! I truly never thought I'd get this far. This is the most of anything I've ever written! I'd hoped to cover all of the first book/movie by the end of the year, but oh well. I'd also meant for a lot more to be included in this chapter, but I decided to spare y'all from an 8000-word behemoth; the other half should be out in a week or two. At least y'all finally get more Boromir in this chapter!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support and reviews; it really motivates me to write faster. Here's to a better 2021—although let's be real, 2020 has set the bar pretty damn low. As usual, hang in there y'all.

"How about a walking song?" Pippin piped up, his voice small under the dark canopy of trees. We'd been walking in subdued silence for ages, broken only by the occasional muttering between Gimli and Boromir, who both looked immensely unsettled by the forest we found ourselves in. "Well, it's just so _quiet_ ," Pippin added defensively, as the others gave him questioning looks.

"Do you know any walking songs, Bee?" Merry asked, turning to me.

I jumped, shaken out of my thoughts, and shook my head. "No, and I can't sing to save my life."

After a moment, Frodo broke in hesitantly. "Bilbo taught me a few walking songs in Rivendell. They're from your home, I think, Bee."

"Really?" I hadn't taught him any songs that I could remember.

Frodo nodded, and after a moment he began to sing softly. " _Whose woods these are, I think I know; his house is in the village, though; he will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow."_

A smile tugged at my lips as Frodo went on. Bilbo had loved the Robert Frost poems I'd translated with him—he must have set some of them to music and shared them with his nephew. Suddenly, I missed Rivendell so badly that my chest ached; I hadn't thought it was possible to be so homesick for a place that wasn't home.

Frodo reached the final verse, his voice melancholy and quiet. " _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep; but I have promises to keep; and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."_

"And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep," Pippin chanted under his breath, stomping his foot to the rhythm. Then he frowned. "We _haven't_ got miles to go before we sleep, have we, Strider?"

"I'm afraid so." Strider seemed to have become the Fellowship's leader now that Gandalf was gone, a fact that seemed to make him grimmer than ever.

"Rumors of this forest have reached even my country, Aragorn," Boromir cut in shortly. "If you intend for us to walk this path much longer, I will turn back and find another route. Does an enchantress not live in these woods?"

"An enchantress?" Gimli snorted, puffing out his chest. "I'd like to see her try and enchant _me_."

"But isn't Bee an enchantress too?" Pippin asked, grinning at me.

"I thought I was a sorceress," I said dryly, turning to Boromir.

He looked disgusted at the thought. "Beatrice is no elven witch," he told Pippin. "Hers is quite a different manner of magic."

"It's _not_ magic—"

"You would do well to speak carefully of the lady of these woods," Strider cut me off, eyeing us sternly. Boromir opened his mouth to respond, but before they could argue further a group of elves had lighted on our path, bows drawn and arrows pointed at our faces. I jumped back in surprise, nearly knocking Gimli over.

"You mortal folk argue so loudly, the Lady herself must already have heard your coming," one of them snapped.

Strider held up his hands in a peaceful gesture and responded to the elves in their own language. Soon they were deep in conversation, Legolas looking thrilled.

"These elves are led by Haldir, the Marchwarden of Lothlorien," he told the rest of us in Westron. "They will escort us to their city presently, where their lord and lady will determine if we might stay."

Gimli and Boromir looked furious at the news, but I beamed, wondering if this Lothlorien would be anything like Rivendell.

The elves led us through the forest, their footsteps quick and silent, their faces grim. They must have been following a trail of some kind, but I couldn't see anything to differentiate our path from the rest of the endless woods—I knew without them, we'd probably get lost in seconds.

"What d'you make of this, then?" Gimli asked me in a gruff undertone, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the guards. "I don't like these sneaking fellows one bit."

I considered them nervously; they were all in deep conversation with Strider and Legolas, speaking elvish in hushed voices. "They do seem different from the elves in Rivendell, don't they?"

"Aye, and those were bad enough, if you ask me. The least these folk might do is speak a tongue we all understand!"

At that, one of the elves turned and glared sharply at Gimli, before returning to his conversation with the others. "Very rude," I agreed. The dwarf hmphed and patted me on the back fondly.

After what felt like miles, we paused, the elves gesturing grandly to the trees ahead. Legolas turned and translated for the rest of us again: "Ahead lies Caras Galadhon, the city of the Golden Wood of Lothlorien, home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel."

It was nothing like Rivendell after all, unlike any city I'd ever seen—I wasn't sure the word _city_ even applied. The elves' homes seemed to be built into the trees themselves, their roads extensions of the branches and trunks, some raised hundreds of feet into the air and twining through the forest canopy like rivers. Stunned, we were led through the meandering buildings, then at last up a slender staircase built into the trunk of the largest tree I'd ever seen. I was certain it would dwarf even the giant sequoias back in the United States, and I wondered what it would look like in the spring and summer, with gold leaves decorating the white branches.

The elves spoke again before departing. "We are to speak with the Lady of the Golden Wood," Legolas told us, looking awed. "She will deem whether it is safe for us to stay in Lothlorien."

Safe? I hesitated. Not only was Frodo carrying the Ring, but I had a pistol and flare gun in my bag—somehow I wasn't sure this Lady would find us very safe.

My worries were cut short as two elves approached us, both stunningly beautiful. One of them—Lord Celeborn, I assumed—was pale and handsome, wearing flowing silver robes and a distant expression. But the other—my breath caught in my throat. Lady Galadriel was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen: intimidatingly tall, with a glimmering white dress and long golden hair that made me think of beams of sunlight streaming through tree branches, and her _eyes—_

I flinched and looked away. Every elf I'd met, from Elrond to Amarien, had striking, ageless eyes, as though they were gazing at something in the distant past, far beyond my sight. But Galadriel's eyes were the most intense by far—I couldn't bear to meet her gaze at all, and as I glanced at my companions, I saw that most of them couldn't either.

_Welcome to Lothlorien, Beatrice Smith._

I nearly jumped out of my skin. What was that? An absurd thought crossed my mind, though somehow I knew it was true: was that _her?_ I dared a peek at her face, but Galadriel was busy speaking with Strider and Haldir, discussing our journey so far, the evil we'd encountered in Moria, where we had been and where we intended to go next—

 _And where will_ you _go next?_

I stared at her, wild-eyed, but she gave no sign that she had contacted me. Glancing around again, I saw that the others looked similarly jumpy. _Lady Galadriel? How are you…is this magic?_ I thought, then winced, feeling foolish. Of course it was magic, what else could it be?

 _Where will you go next?_ The voice repeated itself, as though I hadn't tried to interrupt. _Will you follow the Man of Gondor to Minas Tirith, allowing the Ring to pass from your reach? Will you honor your oath to protect the Ringbearer?_

Oh, God, did she _know?_ Could she tell what I'd planned to do, what I'd almost done? Hot shame flooded my mouth, and I choked. _Of course I will. I don't want anything to do with the Ring!_

The thought was instinctive, a knee-jerk reaction to her words, but as it solidified in my mind, I was relieved to find that it was the truth: I didn't want it. A feeling of freedom washed over me like clear water, though it left disgust bare in its wake. It wasn't much to be proud of, after all, not if it had taken a battle, a demon, and the loss of Gandalf just to shake me out of the Ring's grasp.

 _God, I'm sorry I ever wanted it—I'm ashamed of myself,_ I admitted. _But it's passed, truly. I don't want the Ring now, I promise, not even if it could get me home!_

_What if you did not need the Ring to find your way home?_

It took a moment for the words to sink in. _What do you mean?_

 _You once asked Lord Elrond if he possessed the power to send you home. Likewise did you seek help from the Gray Wizard, and the Brown. Would you not ask the same of me? If_ I _were to offer you a path home, would you take it?_

I inhaled sharply. _Could you…_ do _that?_

 _Would you ask it of me?_ Her voice sounded almost sinister, and the challenge echoed in my mind for a long moment. _The others would not know. You might return home in peace, this very night, perhaps—if only you ask it of me._

Was she serious? Could I really return home so quickly? I took a deep breath, hesitating, but the choice was easier than I'd thought it would be. _I would have asked you without a second thought, before we passed through Moria. But now…_ My gaze turned to my companions, my _friends_ —people who had talked and laughed with me, who had risked their lives for me, who had already lost so much and might need my help before long. _I swore an oath to protect Frodo. I'm the only one who knows anything about Saruman's weapons. And I'm the only one who knows—who knows that Boromir might die soon. I can't go home now._

 _Then you will remain in Middle Earth?_ The voice cut me off, and I faltered.

 _Remain?_ The word sounded so final, so permanent, that my heart twisted. _Not forever,_ I thought anxiously. _But for now…how can I abandon them, in the middle of a war? I need to see them through this, I just_ have _to._ _Besides, I said I'd see Amarien again before I left. I can't just leave her without saying goodbye; she's one of the best friends I've ever had._

 _Very well,_ was her only answer.

As confident as I was in my choice, a new thought formed in my mind, almost of its own accord. I twisted my hands nervously. _But who can say how long the war will go on?_ _Who can say if they'll make it through this at all? What if it takes years before I can even start looking for a way home?_

 _Do not despair, Beatrice. Remain at your Company's side, and you shall not lose hope._ For the first time, the voice sounded gentle, and I dared another glance at Galadriel. She met my eyes at last and smiled, radiant as sunlight on water. I nodded faintly. If I had managed to overcome the Ring's influence, maybe I could hold out hope for the future, too. I had to try.

"Now that was a fair bit of magic, and no mistake," Sam muttered to Frodo as Galadriel dismissed us. My head was still spinning with the alien sensation of having someone else's voice in it, and I blinked several times to clear my thoughts as we began to file back down the gleaming silver steps built into the enormous tree. Boromir took up the rear, his face bloodless and clammy.

"Are you alright?" I asked, falling into step beside him.

Like me, it took him a moment to regain his senses, and I was startled to see tears in his eyes. "That enchantress had no business entering our minds," he snarled, his voice shaking. "And she dared ask me—no, I will not speak of it. But she presumed too much, far too much, to even _suggest_ …"

I hesitated. It _had_ been uncomfortable to have Galadriel enter my mind and challenge me like that, but treating her behavior as rude just felt pointless, like berating the tides for changing or a tree for losing its leaves in the fall. "She asked me some difficult questions too," I admitted. "It felt like…like she was testing me."

"Yes, exactly." Boromir nodded, looking relieved that he hadn't been alone in the experience.

I could only assume that whatever Galadriel had seen in Boromir's mind, she had given him a passing grade. Still, I'd seen the stares he sent Frodo's way when he thought no one was looking, the tension in his jaw when anyone so much as mentioned going to Mordor—and I knew the Ring was trying to take hold of him. Galadriel must have seen it too—she'd seen it in my mind, after all.

"I…well, I just hope I passed whatever test it was," I said with difficulty.

"Hmph. You need not vie for her good opinion," Boromir snorted.

"But she reminds me of Gandalf, somehow," I protested. "You know, larger-than-life, like a character from a fairy tale, and so—well, so _magical_. I…" I hesitated, but the others had walked out of earshot, Boromir's steps having slowed to match mine. "I didn't have Gandalf's good opinion, when he died," I admitted quietly. "I'd like for Galadriel, at least, to think well of me."

Boromir shook his head. "That is nonsense," he said gently. "Of course he thought well of you, else he would not have recommended to Lord Elrond that you accompany us."

"No, no. We had a…disagreement, in Moria. I said some cruel things. And now I can't take them back."

Hesitantly, he rested a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry," he said. "But I am certain he forgave you, whatever the offense. Mithrandir was not without understanding, nor compassion."

I didn't answer, my mind lingering on the things I'd _said_ to Gandalf, the hate and rage boiling in my veins as I'd glared at him in the dark…I wasn't sure anyone's compassion extended far enough to forgive me for that.

"Rest assured that the Lady Galadriel saw your remorse as well," Boromir added kindly, before turning a narrowed eye back the way we'd come. "Indeed, it seems there was nothing in our minds she did _not_ see fit to scrutinize."

I didn't know what to say to that, so we caught up to the rest of the Fellowship in silence. Several maidservants in gray gowns led us to a row of rooms among the trees (on the ground floor, much to the hobbits' relief), tiny and sparsely furnished but so elegantly made that I didn't mind in the slightest. The walls and ceiling of my little room were made of living wood, the tree's trunk and branches somehow seamlessly bent to accommodate it.

I stood there for a long moment, breathing deeply. I was safe here. Safe from the Balrog, the goblins, the wild wolves. Safe from Saruman. After spending so long in the wilderness, the thought overwhelmed me. Still struggling to relax, I took a long-overdue bath, combed the dirt and dust out of my hair, and put lotion on my chapped, sunburned face. A white nightgown had been folded on my bed, but I was too tired to slip it on, instead burrowing under the covers like a naked mole rat and succumbing, at last, to exhaustion.

I didn't emerge from my pile of blankets until well after noon. A maidservant appeared soon after to wash my disgusting travel clothes and provide me with a new dress to wear—I wondered guiltily if she'd been waiting for me to wake up. My thanks fell on deaf ears, as she seemed barely able to speak Westron at all. After a good deal of miming and pointing, we finally exchanged names, and I managed to ask Ressil for some parchment and writing supplies—her mannerisms had reminded me of Amarien, and I was suddenly desperate to write to my friends again. Ressil clapped her hands in celebration at finally understanding me, and dashed off with a rustle of skirts.

Since it didn't look like we were going to leave Lothlorien anytime soon, I took the opportunity to explore, wandering around under the trees and enjoying the feeling of wearing a clean dress. The day passed quietly—or, looking back, perhaps it was several days. I couldn't explain it, but time seemed to flow strangely in Lothlorien, and I couldn't say how long I spent walking under the canopy of trees. Over everything there was a faint golden light, like an overexposed photograph. That was how I felt walking through the trees—as though I'd wandered into a still photo, an image frozen from the distant past, and we had left the movement of time behind us at the borders of the woods.

"Lady Bee!" Ressil called, jolting me out of my thoughts. She curtseyed and presented me with a stack of parchment, several ink bottles, and a long white feather quill.

"Thank you," I said eagerly. "But please, there's no need to curtsey."

She blinked at me, confused, and thus began an awkward game of charades in which I kept miming a curtsey to tell her I _didn't_ want her to curtsey, and she eventually huffed in exasperation, rolled her eyes, and left—but not before curtseying again, extra deeply.

I sighed, gathering up the writing supplies she'd brought me.

Ever since we left Moria, I'd felt horribly guilty for forgoing my letters to my friends and family. Back in the mountains, I'd tried to write to them, but for some reason the words just wouldn't come—I was certain, now, that it was due to the Ring. Try as I might, I hadn't been able to imagine anyone actually receiving my letters; it had felt hopeless, useless—and the Ring had fed on that despair.

But I would change all that, I thought determinedly, settling into the grass with my writing supplies among the roots of one of the pale golden trees.

_Dear Bilbo,_

_I figured out that riddle of yours—'now that you are given one, you're either left with two or none.' Only took me three months or so to get it_. _Did you ask me that on purpose? Was it some kind of warning, about making the right choice?_

My hand shook, and several droplets of ink splattered onto the parchment. It was hard, so hard, to reference the Ring even in passing like this, but I took a deep breath and went on. If anyone would understand, it was Bilbo. I remembered his panic, his fear, when I'd brought up memories of his riddle game with Gollum. He'd still felt a pull to the Ring, even after all those years. How would it have altered me, what would I have _become_ , if I'd taken it?

_It'd be like you, wouldn't it, to try to slip me some life lesson in your riddles. I thought I didn't have a choice, that I had to get home however I could, but I was wrong. I had two choices: get home the wrong way, or get home the right way._

_I was being selfish. More selfish than I ever thought I was capable of being. But you'll be glad to know I'm taking the second choice—I'm staying in Middle Earth for now. I'll figure out a way home soon enough—the right way this time. Frodo is still safe, and I promise, I'll look after him as best I can._

"May I join you?"

I gave a start at the sound of Boromir's voice. I hadn't seen him in several days—or was it a week already? "Sure," I said, motioning for him to sit in the grass next to me. "What's up?"

"Up?" he repeated, sitting near me in the grass, his back to a tree trunk.

"I mean, what'd you want to talk to me about?"

Boromir frowned, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Nothing, I suppose. I have merely grown tired of the company of elves, and wished to be among others of my own kind." There was no need to explain why he didn't want to spend time with Strider instead. "Though I shall leave you in peace, if you prefer it," he added.

"No, not at all," I said quickly, surprised but pleased that he'd wanted to spend time with me. With a sigh, he leaned back against the tree and tilted his head up to the canopy of branches, clearly in no hurry to talk. Still, he had a point—I'd spent so long around elves now that it was pretty refreshing just to be around another human again.

I studied him sidelong. Boromir was handsome, I thought belatedly—almost startlingly so, with his long hair, broad shoulders, and medieval-looking clothing, so different from any men I'd ever seen back home. It wasn't that I hadn't noticed his good looks before, but it was especially apparent now that he'd had a chance to bathe and rest.

Unlike most of the Fellowship, he'd continued to wear his traveling clothes (though freshly washed), rather than something borrowed from the elves. Stifling a sudden laugh, I wondered if it was because of his obvious mistrust of Lothlorien, or if it was just that the slender elven clothes hadn't been able to fit over his broad frame. His dark hair was newly combed and gleamed like burnished copper, and he had trimmed his beard close against his square jaw. And his eyes—I'd seen gray eyes before, of course, but they always appeared blue or green in the right light. But _his_ seemed to be gray through and through, as though they were distilled from the pages of a book, ink and paper brought to life.

Suddenly those gray eyes turned to me. "How closely you study me," Boromir observed idly, a grin tugging at his lips. "Are my features to your liking?"

I jumped. "Oh, no," I said quickly. "I mean, yes—that is—I was just lost in thought, sorry." I felt my ears burn.

He laughed and waved away my words. "Forgive me, I was in jest. What is it you write there, if I may ask?" he said, gesturing to the parchment scattered in the grass at my feet.

"Letters for Bilbo and my friend Amarien in Rivendell. And then these are for my mom and my friends back home. Oh!" I added, "and before I forget, these are for you." I handed him a stack of parchment. "You're probably almost out of writing supplies by now."

"Thank you, Beatrice," he replied, frowning down at the parchment. "But in truth, I have not written to my brother for some time now. I cannot account for it, but it has been…difficult to put quill to parchment of late."

I recognized the strain in his voice, and my heart sank. _The Ring. I was right._ "You should try writing to Faramir again. I bet he'd be interested in all this," I told him gently, gesturing around us.

"That he would be." Boromir looked around, taking in the elven forest as though trying to see it with his brother's eyes. "Have you any other family besides your mother?" he asked after a while. "Siblings, a husband, a father?"

"No. I'm an only child, single, and my dad died when I was ten. It was cancer," I added in explanation. "I'm sure y'all have the same disease here, although you might call it by a different name."

"I am sorry to hear it," he said softly. "What was his profession? You were not part of the gentry, I take it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, we don't have nobility or anything back home, but that's right. My dad was a high school teacher, and my mom is a lawyer."

"Your mother practices law?" Boromir exclaimed. "Forgive me," he added quickly, seeing the warning glare on my face. "You have told me before of your people's customs; I should not have been surprised." He laughed. "I should have suspected, in any case, that you were raised by an unusually commanding mother, bold as you are."

"Bold?" I repeated blankly. No one had ever called me anything like that before; my friends back in Texas had made fun of my shyness at every opportunity.

"Do you doubt my praise, troll-slayer?" he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

Heat rose to my face, and I busied myself with ripping up handfuls of grass at my feet. "Legolas killed that troll, Boromir, not me. I just—helped out a bit. Any of y'all with a gun could've done a whole lot better."

He shrugged. "As you say. Yet you performed admirably in combat."

"I was petrified the whole time," I protested uncomfortably—him calling me _bold_ was, ironically, quite unnerving. "And I wasn't able to kill a single goblin without help!"

"It was your first battle. From what little I saw of your work, you parried your opponents' blades quite well. You need only learn to press your advantage." At my doubtful look, he leaned forward impatiently, resting an elbow on his knee and meeting my eyes squarely. "I have trained many men, Beatrice. I would not exaggerate your skill; to do so would be deadly."

"Thank you," I said at last, forcing myself to accept his words. Boromir was so bluntly honest that it took some getting used to. "I'm just not sure _how_ to press my advantage," I admitted after a moment. "Could you teach me how to go on the offensive like that?"

"Of course. We shall likely stay in this strange forest for several more days at least," Boromir said. "We shall have ample time to practice."

"Great!" I said, brightening. "You know, I'm surprised Strider hasn't been making me and the hobbits keep up with our daily swordplay since we got here," I added dryly. "He made us practice out in the snow, in the dark, when we were bone-tired—and _now_ he's giving us a break?"

Boromir's lip curled into a sneer. "Aragorn spends all his time among the elves now, it seems. One would think he has abandoned his own people in their favor." I shrugged uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. "I fear he shall not wish to go to Minas Tirith at all," he went on, fists clenched. "But to do otherwise is madness! I cannot account for his thinking." He turned to me. "What say you, then? You would not have them go on to the Land of Shadow, not without first having a chance to rest and gather strength in my city."

"I don't know," I said carefully, recognizing his tone; it sounded just the same as my feverish thoughts weeks ago. "This plan was never about strength, it's about secrecy. And time is of the essence, isn't it? It's probably better to destroy th—to get rid of it as quickly as possible." I stumbled over the words—it was difficult for me, even now, just to talk about the Ring.

"Yes, time is of the essence," Boromir repeated impatiently. "Time that must be spent well! What use is the little time we have remaining if it is squandered away on a fool's errand?"

"It's _not_ a fool's errand!" I exclaimed. "It will work."

Boromir seemed to have realized that he'd said too much, and he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I had heard the elves in Rivendell speak of your foresight, but such a declaration cannot be within your knowledge."

 _Tell him,_ I snapped to myself. _Tell him that you wanted the Ring, that you understand, that you know what he's going through_. _It might act as a warning, it might help him understand, it might snap him out of it._

"Look," I began, clenching my fists in my lap. I hesitated. I didn't think I could bear those gray eyes turning to me with mistrust, disgust, anger, as they certainly would if he knew what I'd almost done. "I know it's hard to have faith in this plan, _believe me_ , I know, but we have to hold out hope. It…it feeds on despair," I added desperately, my throat convulsing on the words before I could say more.

He frowned, studying me with confusion, but I looked away, unable to offer an explanation. He was wrong about me, I thought blackly. I _wasn't_ bold. I was too much of a coward to bring up the Ring at all.

"I should go," I said abruptly. "I don't know how mail works here, but I've been meaning to ask about sending a courier to Rivendell with my letters."

"Very well," Boromir replied, still studying me as I gathered up my letters and dusted the bits of grass off my dress. "Bring your sword and meet me here tomorrow, if you will. We shall make a warrior of you yet," he added, offering me a smile.

"Alright. And you should write to your brother," I added impulsively. "Promise me you'll try."

He looked down at the stack of parchment I'd given him, unease written across his face. "Then I will try, Beatrice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Frodo sings in this chapter is 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost. Every time I read it I think of those LOTR walking songs they sing so often in the books, and I think Bilbo would have no trouble at all putting the poem to song given the catchy rhyme scheme and repeating last line.
> 
> See y'all in 2021!


	21. Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoy this chapter (I promise they won't all be this long, moving forward). It might be a bit longer before my next update though. No, I'm not going on hiatus or anything, just don't expect two or three updates a month anymore, at least for a while. Frankly, I'm a really slow and inefficient writer—each chapter takes more effort and thought and rewriting than I'd like to admit, and a fast update schedule isn't always sustainable.
> 
> To get a bit more personal than any of y'all'd want, my anxiety is pretty bad (thank you, world events) and writing this story has been a great distraction, but lately I've been leaning on it way too much, getting pretty heavily distracted from work and other responsibilities that I'm already struggling to stay on top of. So I'm going to step back a bit, just for a while, and try to reset my priorities and my schedule. If you don't see an update for a month or so, you'll know it was a success!

"Here." Boromir tossed a wooden sword to me. "This will serve you better in practicing offensive maneuvers."

I frowned down at it; the dense wood was nearly as heavy as the blade Lanion had chosen for me. "How?"

He swung his own practice sword around, testing its weight. "I have seen the hesitation in your movements when we sparred in the past," he said, turning back to me. "You are reluctant to press your advantage because you fear hurting your sparring partner. Am I right?"

"Yeah, a bit," I admitted.

"It is a common concern among new soldiers. But you need not fear causing any lasting damage with this." He smiled indulgently, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: I probably wouldn't have been able to hurt him with my real sword either. "You will master proper offensive technique much more easily like this. Now, attack me."

His straightforwardness caught me off guard. "What—now?"

"Do it!"

I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the wooden hilt. "I hope they have good doctors here," I said, in an attempt to hide my nerves. "Because you'll need one!" I lunged forward, and his booming laugh rang out in the clearing as our swords clashed.

Boromir proved to be a very different teacher than Strider. While I'd been practicing with my sword since the Council, Strider had focused on teaching the hobbits and me basic self-defense; he likely thought that offensive strength would come with time, or maybe that it wasn't needed. But Boromir clearly thought differently (given how readily and loudly he complained about Strider's teaching methods). Perhaps he felt, like me, that we didn't have time to learn things slowly.

"You must parry faster than that," Boromir chided me, his wooden sword point pressed to my stomach. My own sword had been knocked violently from my hand a moment earlier.

Days had passed since we'd begun—though I couldn't count exactly how long it had been—and I found myself cautiously optimistic about my progress, despite getting the wind knocked out of me on a regular basis.

"I know," I sighed, picking up my blade and trying to hide how out of breath I was. "But hey, I got you a few times, didn't I?"

"Admirably so," he conceded, grinning and massaging his bicep, where I'd managed to strike him, hard. I returned his smile proudly. "You forced me back many paces. But you promptly forgot your footwork; you stood in one place far too long. You see how all your momentum was kept on your front foot?" He demonstrated, taking his stance again. "I am surprised I did not knock you to the ground at once, unbalanced as you were."

I nodded, copying his stance and shifting my weight experimentally.

"And you are too tense," Boromir added, "with too much strain carried in your neck and shoulders." He stepped forward and gripped my shoulder as evidence, shaking me back and forth gently. "Like a brittle reed you are! Such a stance weakens the strength of your arm and the grip on your sword," he said. He moved closer and clapped his other hand over mine, his fingers calloused and warm. "Feel your grip there! It is no wonder I disarmed you so easily." He tightened my hold on the wooden hilt and smiled encouragingly. I met his eyes and swallowed, suddenly more disarmed than ever.

"How you berate our poor Bee!" Legolas stepped into our clearing with Gimli in tow. "Come now, Man of Gondor. She would do us proud in combat!"

Boromir released me hastily. He stepped back, the smile slipping from his face as quickly as it had come. "Of course she would," he said, folding his arms. "I meant no insult."

"It's alright!" I waved them off. "I need to know where to improve if I'm ever going to get any better." It was true; I had worried that Boromir would go easy on me, but he seemed to be treating me like any of the other soldiers he'd trained in Gondor. _Well, he probably wouldn't have grabbed their hands like that…_ I cleared my throat. "Where are y'all off to, then?"

"Our princeling here has offered to introduce me to the blacksmiths of Lorien," Gimli said eagerly. "I know they can be nothing to the craftsmen of the Lonely Mountain, but it shall prove interesting nonetheless. Perhaps I'll teach them a thing or two, eh?" He elbowed Legolas in the ribs excitedly.

"Yes, put your blades down and join us!" Legolas offered.

I stared at them, remembering their constant arguments over the past several weeks. "I'm in," I said eagerly, curious to see more of their strange new camaraderie.

"Not so fast," Boromir said. "The hobbits will be joining us to practice once they've finished their latest meal. It will be good for Beatrice to spar against new partners."

I hesitated. I saw the wisdom of his words, but the idea of sparring with Sam made me wince. I'd been avoiding him like the plague since we'd gotten to Lothlorien, unable to stomach seeing fear and mistrust and anger in his eyes. It was cowardly, I knew, but I couldn't help it. Any apology I offered now would seem insincere, though I knew that was just an excuse to stay away.

"Ah, but perhaps on our way to the smithies, we might stop at Nelion's workshop," Legolas added casually. "A master violin-maker, I have heard."

" _What?_ " I cried, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "For Pete's sake, why haven't you brought me there already? Let's go!" The elf laughed as I set my wooden sword aside to join them.

"Until tomorrow, then, Beatrice," Boromir said, turning away.

I faltered, suddenly disappointed—but of course he couldn't come along, he had to train with the hobbits. "Right. See you later, then."

Trying to seem nonchalant, I followed Gimli and Legolas into the forest.

"Ah, here we are, the master luthier himself," Legolas announced after about a half-mile, waving me towards a little workshop and chatting in elvish with Nelion, a reedy-looking elf with long silver hair.

"Oh, this is _incredible,"_ I exclaimed, taking in the violin-maker's workshop. "What's he doing now, Legolas?" For several minutes, Legolas chatted with Nelion and translated his actions for me as the craftsman polished gleaming pieces of wood and fitted them into a slender frame.

Lothlorien violins were unlike anything I'd ever seen, their wood so pale as to seem white from a distance, their strings like threads of moonlight, their scrolls delicate enough to resemble new rolls of parchment.

"On to the smithies, eh?" Gimli said, clearly impatient to move the party along.

"Already?" I was entranced, reluctant to leave. The luthier raised an exasperated eyebrow at me, shrugged, and carried on with his work. "Y'all go ahead. This is way more interesting," I said, settling down on an empty workbench as Gimli and Legolas moved on.

The shadows lengthened as I watched the violin-maker work. Every now and again other elves came and went, bringing Nelion thin sheets of undyed wood, boxes of gleaming strings, and bottles of polish.

I was just contemplating leaving to go to dinner—the Fellowship had taken to eating together near our rooms most evenings—when another elf entered the shop and picked up one of the violins, its structure completed but the wood still dull and unpolished. She began to play, clearly testing the instrument's sound quality, and I gasped. The music was beautiful, improvised and unstructured as it was, and for a moment the workshop seemed bathed in gold, pale and gleaming. For a moment—a few seconds, a minute, an hour, I couldn't say—I was enthralled, and lost myself in the melody.

"What do you write with so odd a script?"

I jumped violently at the sound of Boromir's voice, nearly spilling my inkwell over the parchment I'd spread out on the bench.

"Oh—hey," I said, shuffling the parchment over so he could sit beside me. "I'm just transcribing the piece she's playing," I explained, gesturing eagerly to the violinist. At the confused look on Boromir's face, I added, "Do y'all not write music this way in Gondor?"

He frowned, studying the five-lined staffs I'd meticulously inked onto the parchment. "I could not tell you," he said, looking almost embarrassed. "I was never musically inclined myself, and I admit I have given no thought to the methods used by our bards."

"Oh," I said, my enthusiasm deflating like an old balloon. It was too much to hope, I supposed, that a warrior like Boromir would have any interest in music. "So…what brings you here, then?"

"Legolas mentioned that the elven music had put you under a spell," he said solemnly. "I came to make sure you did not miss dinner."

"Thanks," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'll be there soon. I just want to get a bit more of the music down first." I hesitated. "You don't need to wait for me—I don't expect everyone to care about this kind of thing," I added, remembering the snide comments from my friends back home and feeling heat rise to my face.

But Boromir frowned. "I would not be here if I did not wish it," he said. "Perhaps I will come to understand what has captivated you so."

"Oh!" A smile bloomed on my face, and we sat in silence for a while, listening to the elven music. I kept glancing up at Boromir nervously, wondering if he'd get bored and regret coming to meet me out here, but he just looked thoughtful.

"What's the music like in Minas Tirith?" I asked at last. I'd managed to transcribe the elf's melody as best as I could, and I set the parchment aside to dry.

His eyes darkened. "I could hardly tell you. Long has it been since I have heard music echoing in the streets of my city."

"I'm sorry."

"A grand music hall once stood in the lower quarters of Minas Tirith," he told me. "But decades ago, as our need became dire, the hall was converted to a barracks for soldiers coming to our aid from Dol Amroth and other coastal cities, with some of its chambers now serving as armories." My face fell at his words, and he smiled encouragingly. "It shall not always be so, Beatrice. Music will come back to my city, and all the light and beauty it brings. You will see the music hall as it was, echoing with song. Perhaps you will perform there one day, before you return to your home."

"I hope you're right," I said. A lump had risen in my throat.

"The light of my country _will_ be restored," he demanded, as though he could make it true by determination alone. His smile had faded, replaced by a look that made me cold. "No matter the cost."

"What if the cost is too high?" The words had left my mouth before I could stop them.

"No price is too high to pay." He stood abruptly. "I will see it done!"

"There's no need to get angry," I snapped, standing too.

" _Nothing_ is more important to me than the safety of my people! If you suggest otherwise—"

Boromir's words were cut off by Nelion, who had apparently had enough of our talking interrupting his work. Griping in elvish, he waved an unstrung bow at us and shooed us away. I stammered an apology as we retreated.

"Goodnight, Beatrice," Boromir said shortly, once we'd escaped Nelion's wrath.

"Aren't you coming to dinner?"

"I cannot stomach another bite of elven food." His fists shook at his side. "I—I should not have raised my voice at you. I am sorry. This forest _grates_ on me, and I cannot—"

"It's alright," I said hesitantly, recalling the stifling panic I'd felt in Moria. "I'll see you later."

By the time I'd sat down to dinner, I'd lost my appetite too.

I joined the hobbits for a second breakfast the next day, trying to make up for my lost meal. I reached over for a cup of tea and Sam stood abruptly, mumbling an apology and hurrying away from the table. I faltered, trying to keep a neutral face as the other hobbits exchanged confused glances. My stomach twisted. Miserably, I tried to force down a piece of toast when—

_Beatrice?_

I jumped, crumbs flying across the table. _Lady Galadriel? Is that you?_

She didn't speak in my mind again, but I was suddenly aware of her need to talk with me. I leaped up, ignoring Frodo's look of confusion, and hurried off, somehow knowing exactly where to go.

"Hi," I said, unsurprised to find Galadriel in a clearing waiting for me. She looked just as intimidating as I remembered, and my eyes fell to the ground. "Um—my lady."

"Hello, Beatrice. I trust you are enjoying your stay?" Her voice was warm, and, thankfully, spoken out loud rather than in my head again.

"Of course!" I fiddled with the lace at my sleeve. "You called me here, didn't you?"

Galadriel nodded. "Aragorn spoke with me yesterday. He intends for the Fellowship to leave Lothlorien in two days' time." She caught my gaze and held it sternly. "He expressed doubt that you should join them."

 _"What?"_ Panic flooded my veins. Did Strider really want me to stay behind? Did he—oh, God—did he _know_ that I'd almost—

"He does not know," Galadriel interrupted my thoughts, and I scowled. This whole mind-reading business was still unnerving. "But I believe Gandalf spoke to him in Moria, expressing some amount of concern."

"Oh." I winced under her gaze and looked away. "Do you want me to stay behind, then?"

That challenging expression returned to her face. "Do _you_ think you should?"

I opened my mouth to protest, then hesitated. Maybe… _Maybe I should stay behind._ I had overcome the temptation to use the Ring—of that I was certain now. But how much damage had I already done? Sam had lost all trust in me, and while I couldn't be sure if he'd told Frodo about what he'd heard in Moria, it was obvious that my being here made Sam deeply uncomfortable. It was chipping away, bit by bit, at his peace of mind. Maybe it was selfish to want to continue on with them. After all, I could find my way to Minas Tirith on my own, couldn't I?

But I thought again of Saruman's weapons storerooms, the stockpiles of firearms, the way the ceiling had given way under the explosives at the entrance to the mines. "I can't stay behind," I said at last. "Maybe—maybe I _should_ , but what if the Fellowship needs me? I know I wasn't much help in Moria, but I'd never be able to live with myself if something happened and I wasn't there to help."

Galadriel nodded, her expression unreadable.

"Are you going to tell Strider to leave me behind?" I asked hesitantly. "Or…"

"I have already advised Aragorn that you could be trusted to accompany them, if you believed it to be the best course," she said, and I let out a heavy sigh. "I merely wished to speak to you first. It is no small matter, accompanying such great evil into growing darkness."

"I'm not going to turn back now," I protested, folding my arms. "You already asked me, when we first got here, and my answer hasn't changed."

"Of course," she said kindly. "Though, if I am not mistaken, there is something _you_ wish to ask _me_."

"Oh!" I nodded, unnerved again. "Yes, actually. It's just—you told me when we first got to Lothlorien that you might be able to send me home, if I asked you to do it. Did you mean it? Is it possible? Would I be able to come back, if—I mean, _when_ this is all over, and get home from here?"

Galadriel's smile slipped slightly. "Forgive me. To my knowledge, I do not have such power: far though I can see, my glimpses of your Texas are faint indeed. I am sorry for misleading you, Beatrice, but if you are to return to your home, it shall not be by my hand."

My shoulders slumped. I'd expected that was the case, that she'd only made me the offer as part of her test. But something she said made me pause. "You can really see Texas?" I repeated. "From here, even faintly?"

"The Mirror shows many things. Would you like to look?"

 _A magic mirror?_ I gaped at her. "You mean it would show me my family, my friends? What they're doing right now?"

"Perhaps. It may show the distant past, the present, the many branching paths of the future. Come with me if you wish, and look." She gestured with an elegant hand.

I moved to follow her, then stopped. What was it likely to show me? My mom sobbing over a missing person report, new people moving into my gutted apartment, my friends laughing and talking without me as though I'd never been there at all? What if it showed me something so horrible I decided I couldn't wait to get back home any longer, something that made me turn my eye back on Frodo and the—"No," I said, a little too loudly. "No, I don't want to." Galadriel turned back to me and raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, my lady," I added awkwardly. "But I can't."

"I understand," she said simply, and I knew she'd heard every panicked thought that had flitted through my head. _Maybe Boromir was right about this whole mind-reading thing_ , I thought, before pushing the notion away hurriedly; I couldn't even be properly annoyed with her, because then she'd be able to _tell_ —

"I will leave you to return to your meal, then, Beatrice," Galadriel said lightly, giving me a knowing smile. Soundlessly, she departed the clearing.

" _Elves_ ," I huffed to myself, making my way back to the breakfast table.

I felt a strange sense of foreboding putting my traveling clothes back on, tying my hair back in a tight braid and lacing my thick winter boots. I repacked my bags with difficulty—I had to wrest the Kevlar vest from the maidservant Ressil, who was trying it on over her gown, giggling at its odd weight and bulky shape. "Thanks again for everything," I told her, folding the vest into my bag. She rattled off some elvish in reply. "Same to you, I guess," I said, shrugging, and hurried to join the rest of the Fellowship.

We gathered at the banks of a river Strider had called the Anduin, where a group of elves were preparing several elegant, white canoes for us. Sam was eyeing them with immense trepidation.

The Lorien elves offered their goodbyes, plying us with food, supplies, and gray-green elven cloaks. Then, to my surprise, Galadriel took each of us aside to offer us a farewell gift.

"This is for you, Beatrice," she said, holding out a long cloth-and-wood container shaped like a slender teardrop. I untied the delicate cord around the case, which opened to reveal an elegant, pale violin, just like the ones I'd seen days earlier. My jaw dropped. "A spare from Nelion's workshop," Galadriel explained, smiling as I gaped at the golden wood, the silver strings, the slender, curved bow.

I barely heard her, I was so enamored by the instrument. It looked too big for me, I thought worriedly, the elves being rather taller and longer-limbed than I was. But as I held the violin up to my chin, it seemed to change imperceptibly—or was that in my imagination? and suddenly it fit along my arm as though it were made for me. _A magic violin,_ I decided giddily, and I heard Galadriel's warm laugh in my mind. "Thank you," I exclaimed. "This is incredible."

"Play it well, tree-friend," she said, "and may it remind you of home." With a smile, she moved on to give her gifts to the others.

I stared after her, speechless. _Tree-friend?_

Radagast had called me that too, but why? I had taken it for a strange quirk of the wizard's, but how on earth had Galadriel thought of the same exact epithet? Perplexed, I drew my thumb along the violin's strings, the four notes echoing, perfectly tuned, into the air.

As though in answer, the mallorn tree above me shuddered in a sudden gust of wind, a golden leaf drifting down to land at my feet—the last very straggler from autumn, leaving the branches bare above it. I picked up the leaf and held it up to the sunlight. It was enormous, well over a foot long, and it gleamed against the sky as though its veins were shot through with liquid gold. _Tree-friend,_ I thought again, distantly, and tucked the glittering leaf into my new violin case.

With that, the elves ushered us into three gleaming canoes. I glanced at Boromir, hoping to share one with him, but Gimli pulled me by the elbow into his canoe behind Legolas, eager to show me his gift from Galadriel. Boromir met my eyes and chuckled wryly as he was dragged into his own boat by Merry and Pippin.

It was a long time before I saw him smile again.

With a final farewell to Lothlorien, we set off down the river. I had offered to row, but Legolas and Gimli flatly refused. As the hours passed on the water, I begrudgingly admitted that they had a point; I'd developed a good amount of muscle over the past few months, but the inhuman strength of my boat partners was something to behold. Uneasily, I rested my elbows on my knees and left them to it.

The days slipped by and the river widened and wound its way south. Tension seemed to be growing in the air with each passing hour, and I watched the land flow past on the banks, imagining new horrors behind each tree, each rock, each hill.

We were already so exposed on the river that I didn't dare play my violin, as much as I longed for something to break the silence of our travel. Still, I found myself clutching the instrument close to me, as though its presence alone might calm my nerves.

The others felt similarly jumpy; I could tell. They were oddly silent—even Merry and Pippin barely spoke. When the group did talk, it most often consisted of harsh, whispered arguments between Boromir and Strider, who couldn't agree on which path to take beyond the river.

 _Boromir._ Was he going to die? I didn't know if we were on the same course as the film had taken, but if we were, I had a feeling it would happen soon. I took to glancing at him from my boat, feverish and tense, playing out horrible scenes in my mind. _It might not happen,_ I told myself. _It might not…_ I twisted my sleeve so violently that it ripped halfway to my elbow.

Wincing, I dug out a sewing kit Amarien had packed for me, but my hands were shaking so badly that my needles and thread tumbled to my feet. _They're going to put his body in one of these boats and send it down the river._ As I scrabbled at the floor of the boat for my thread, I ran my fingers along the pale wood, swallowing heavily. _Am I sitting in his coffin?_ My stomach heaved and I wretched over the side of the boat. Nothing came up but bile, and I coughed violently.

"You alright, lass?" Gimli patted my back, hard enough to make my teeth rattle in my jaw.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Just…feeling a bit sick."

"I thought your stomach was stronger than Sam's," Legolas chimed in. In the canoe ahead, Sam's curly head whipped around in a scowl.

"I'm fine." I wrapped my arms around myself, wondering if I'd ever been less fine.

I wasn't the only one doing poorly. Boromir looked even more feverish than me—I caught him glaring intently at Frodo all the time, and his hands shook on the oars. Just as I had withdrawn from the others in Moria, Boromir rarely spoke to us now, except to argue with Strider, whose grave demeanor had reached new heights.

Sam, too, seemed to be at the end of his rope. On the nights I took watch, I noticed him sitting stubbornly awake, guarding over Frodo's bedroll even as he swayed with exhaustion. Clearly he didn't trust me to keep Frodo safe anymore—maybe he didn't trust _anyone_ anymore. That knowledge twisted in my heart like a knife, all the more because I knew I deserved every angry, frightened look he sent my way. How much had he told Frodo? I couldn't tell, but Frodo looked more exhausted than all of us combined, barely speaking or eating, and twitching whenever someone addressed him or came too close.

A waterfall was roaring in the near distance when we stopped to make camp. Around ten days must have passed, although it felt like more, time having caught up to me in a confusing rush once we'd left Lothlorien.

It was still early in the day, but we couldn't go any further until we'd decided once and for all on a path forward—Gondor or Mordor. "The choice shall fall to the Ringbearer," Strider said reluctantly, and all of us glanced at Frodo.

The hobbit closed his eyes, getting to his feet. Looking rather sick to his stomach, he pleaded for an hour to decide, and retreated into the woods.

"Seems an easy enough decision to me," Sam muttered to himself after a while, folding his arms.

"What do you think, Bee?" Merry asked, unwrapping a leaf of lembas and taking a bite. "You and Boromir are leaving us for Minas Tirith either way."

"Oh—that's right," I said hesitantly. I'd almost forgotten our original plan, swept up in all the things that could go wrong.

"It'll be a shame to part with you, lass," Gimli said, shaking his head. "If it comes to that, of course." I smiled at him in return, something tugging at my chest. It felt like years ago I'd first met them all in Rivendell.

The others passed around a meager lunch and did their best to make light conversation, when suddenly Sam leapt to his feet. "Where's Boromir?"

I glanced around. He was gone. Surely an hour had passed—Frodo should have come back by now too. My blood ran cold. " _Shit!_ " Grabbing my bags, I sprinted into the forest, leaving the others looking bewildered behind me.

Time trickled by as I dashed through the woods—minutes, hours, I couldn't say. I peered through the trees as I ran, looking desperately for any sign of Boromir or Frodo. I wanted to call out to them, but refrained, reluctant to draw attention to myself.

At last I found Boromir.

He stood in a clearing, alone. He leaned motionless against the trunk of a tree, a hand pressed over his eyes.

"There you are," I gasped, relieved, but I froze as he turned to look at me. Tears streaked down his face. His eyes were wild, his hair snarled with leaves and dirt. He was shaking. "Boromir?"

He didn't seem to hear me, and I knew, suddenly, what had happened. It had consumed him at last.

 _Oh no—no, no, no…_ My fingernails dug into my palms as horror washed over me, quickly replaced by self-loathing, the unbearable thought that I hadn't even _tried_ to stop him—but he hadn't succeeded in taking it, that much was clear. Frodo must have run off, and recently. Our Fellowship was beginning to break.

Suddenly determination seized me, its grip like iron. I had squandered my foresight once, but I wouldn't do it again. _Nothing_ else would go wrong today, not if I had anything to say about it.

"Here. Drink this." I moved to kneel beside Boromir and offered him my water canteen, my voice matter-of-fact. He blinked down at the hunter-green plastic, a relic of the helicopter owner's camping supplies so long ago. "Just drink it, alright?" I pressed, forcing the canteen into his hands. "Come on, we've got to move."

He turned away from me, not meeting my eyes. "Leave me, Beatrice," he said tonelessly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"We need to get back to the others," I insisted. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

Boromir frowned, but before he could reply, the sound of clanking armor and pounding footsteps reached our ears. "We have company," he said, suddenly alert.

"What?" My heart leapt into my mouth— _already?_

"Orcs, I should guess. Many, and approaching fast." He reached for his sword.

"Wait." On impulse, I tore open my bag and pulled out the Kevlar vest. "Put this on," I said hurriedly, slipping it over his shoulders.

"Stop that—what is this?" he demanded, trying to shrug me off.

"Will you wear it?" I asked desperately. I didn't know how to explain—I didn't dare tell him more. "Please. Just—just for a while." _It might stop an arrow, if put to the test,_ Radagast had said so long ago, and now I prayed it was true.

Boromir stared down at me sharply, as though trying to read my thoughts, but I shook my head wordlessly and zipped up the vest for him. It was bulky, but it fit over his tunic well enough, the elven cloak loose over it. "Beatrice, explain this madness!" he snapped.

Before I could reply, several armored creatures poured into the clearing, and he shoved me back, standing protectively in front of me.

As I drew my sword, my first thought was of the goblins in Moria. But no—these monsters were tall and broad, some of them even taller than Boromir, nothing like our adversaries in the mines. Then, in a flash, they were upon us.

Boromir killed one, then a second, before the third had even reached me. My heart shuddered in my chest, but this wasn't like our skirmish in Moria—I'd seen combat now, and the initial shock had passed. The first clash of my sword against my opponent's didn't stun me as it had before.

The orc charged at me. I balanced my weight as Boromir had taught me, my jaw clenched. Our blades clashed twice before I managed to slice through the creature's upper arm, nearly severing the limb. It roared in animalistic pain, sinking to the ground, and I stabbed it in the chest with all the strength I had.

I leaped back as it died, its body convulsing and twitching like a crushed insect's. But I didn't have time to be horrified—more of them were pouring through the trees. Boromir met my eyes, and without a word we began to retreat toward the river.

"There you are!"

I whirled around, wild-eyed, but it was only Pippin and Merry, out of breath from running. "Orcs," Merry exclaimed, gasping for breath and pointing back toward the Anduin. He'd dropped his blade again, a rock hefted in his fist instead. "Dozens of them!"

"Some of them have those Texas weapons," Pippin added. "Those gun things like Bee's, but bigger."

"What?" I cried, my blood running cold. It was Saruman, then. And we were surrounded.

Without a word Boromir reached for the gleaming horn at his hip. He put it to his lips and blew once, twice, three times, the sound unbearably loud, and we lifted our blades again as the orcs swarmed toward us. There were so many of them, more than we could ever take on, but what else could we do?

"Get behind me," I shouted at Merry, who had thrown his rock and was scrambling for another. Then the orcs were upon us, and I raised my blade with a yell—Boromir had said I was bold, and so I _would_ be, no matter what—

A gunshot exploded through the forest.

Everyone jumped—the orc bearing down on me turned to look at the source of the noise, and I took the opportunity to hack my blade into its neck with a foul squelch.

"No!" Merry was shouting. Boromir had fallen to the ground, clutching at his ribs—he'd been shot.

I looked around wildly, panic flooding my mouth—and there, in a cluster of trees, stood the largest orc yet, hefting a gun from Saruman's storerooms. Some kind of hunting rifle, I thought, and something the orc clearly hadn't been trained to deal with. It had dropped the gun in its aftershock, but picked it back up and was taking aim a second time, the weapon clunky and alien in its clawed hands.

Boromir was staggering to his feet, pale and shaking. Had the bulletproof vest worked? I didn't know much about them—how much damage would a gunshot still do?

Before I could move the orc fired again, then again. The second shot found its mark—Boromir fell back again with a hoarse cry, staggering back to his feet with difficulty. I screamed, diving for my pistol and taking aim. I fired at the orc, the bullet going wide and shattering a tree branch far to the left.

"The witch!" one of the orcs called in a guttural roar, seeing the pistol in my hand, and suddenly they were charging toward me. I raised the pistol desperately. _One shot left._ But there were too many, _too many,_ I didn't have a clue what to—

"Boromir!" One of the hobbits had cried out again—I couldn't see which. An arrow had pierced Boromir's shoulder, and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath—no, _no—_ the enormous orc had cast its rifle aside in favor of a huge black bow, looking impatient that the bullets weren't having their intended effect.

It drew its bow again. I had to get to Boromir—I _had_ to—

A huge, clawed hand grabbed at my hair and dragged me to the ground. I screamed, tears springing to my eyes as I twisted around, trying to stab my attacker, but I was only holding my sword one-handed, the pistol gripped in my right hand. I swiped at the orc's ribs, the swordpoint glancing off its armor, and it _laughed_ , wrapping a meaty arm around my neck, choking me—

Panic overwhelmed me, greater than anything I'd ever known, and I wrenched my right arm behind me and fired the pistol into the creature's side—it dropped like a stone, black blood splattering across my cloak. I gasped for breath, the now-useless pistol hot in my hand. Boromir, where was Boromir?

I whirled around—he was still on his feet, the black arrow jutting horribly from his shoulder, his face twisted in pain—I could hear his labored breathing even across the clearing. The orc who had shot him fired again, the next arrow slicing deep into Boromir's arm. With a roar, he felled another orc, then another, pausing to sound his horn again, desperately—

 _"No!"_ Someone screamed—one of the orcs had grabbed Pippin, whose small sword clattered to the ground uselessly. Merry yelled a battle cry and ran to his aid, but was overwhelmed by another's grasping arms—no, everything was happening too fast—

Another orc leaped at me, and I raised the pistol in its face, jutting out my chin. _Bold—you're bold, remember?_ "Stay back!" I roared, lurching forward. "Or I'll shoot!"

The creature hesitated, just for a moment, and I dropped the gun, cleaving my sword through its ribs with both hands.

"Merry—Pippin!" I yelled, whipping around, but I couldn't see them. My eyes fixed instead on the same creature who'd shot Boromir—it was drawing its bow yet again—

I dived for my pistol and ran towards Boromir, pointing the unloaded pistol at the orc. My hand shook as its black eyes met mine. _I'm a witch—they think I'm a witch—_ "Drop your bow!" I bellowed, my voice coming out high and thin. "Shoot again and I'll—"

An orc barreled into me from the side—I crashed to the ground with a scream, pistol and sword clattering from my hands. Enormous arms hauled me into the air. I twisted away desperately, and something struck the back of my head. My vision went white.

And for the third time in my life, I passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we're moving on from the Fellowship of the Ring to the Two Towers. Sorry for this bummer of a chapter, but I'll leave you with my new (least) favorite joke: 
> 
> What's the difference between the US Capitol building and Mordor?
> 
> One does not simply walk into Mordor.


End file.
